


A River of Three Crossings

by maokitty



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Themes of prostitution/sexual violence (no explicit depictions)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maokitty/pseuds/maokitty
Summary: Levi doesn’t know what to do with you, this loyal waif of a soldier who reminds him so much of home. He comes to think that you are beautiful, but his mother taught him that beautiful things do not last.





	1. The First Crossing: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for your interest in this fic! :) Hope everyone enjoys it! 
> 
> This chapter starts with the fall of Wall Maria, so it has a fairly dark tone for the first few scenes. I expanded a lot on the dynamics of the refugee camps from the first season, so please be mindful of that! 
> 
> Many thanks to [gr_ywaren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gr_ywaren) for being such a phenomenal beta!

* * *

**"What happened on that day?"**

* * *

Shiganshina is the mouth of hell.

Everyone on the other side of Wall Maria knows that something is coming, of course. There had been the explosion, the flash of thunder that lit the sky an ominous green. There had been the tolling bells, the whirring of gears as the Garrison Corps flew into battle. There had been the screaming, the crying, the sound of flesh snapping. There had the ferry swollen with shell shocked passengers, desperate refugees dangling from its side, kicking as they fell into the river.

You are running when Wall Maria is finally breached by the Armored Titan. You are lucky enough to reach your home before the giants come. You are not fortunate enough to leave before they do.

The next few moments will set in your memory like a fog, hazy but sticky and impossible to ignore. You will recall: a pail kicked onto its side, goat's milk running into blood; your mother plucked up by two massive fingers, kicking and screaming; the wide grin of a Titan, teeth bared and breath stinking of copper; frenzied screaming, a terrible crunch.

People run past you, paying no mind to a girl in denial. "Mother, _mother!_ " you scream, your throat hoarse with abuse. Your knees, touching the cobblestone, are skinned and bloody. They will be scarred for years to come. " _Mother!_ "

What pulls you out of the fog is the whistling of steel cables. A dark figure cuts through the sky and as easily the Titan's neck. When the giant falls, you are still too busy crying to move. The ground shakes as its corpse topples over, but you do not flinch.

" _What are you doing here?_ "

You ignore the distant voice, instead crawling toward your mother, watching her face. She's missing her torso and she looks so scared. You have to help her.

"Shit— _do you have a death wish?_ "

You are being pulled up by the back of your shirt, collar cutting into your neck. When you finally look up, you see a man with jet black hair and sharp eyes, wearing a crest of blue and white wings. Survey Corps, a part of you distantly thinks. You have still yet to reply, but he speaks anyway.

"I can't believe there are still civilians here—what are those Garrison shitheads doing?" His jaw clenches, and were the circumstances any different, you would be afraid of him. "They're fucking useless," he spits, then finally turns to you. "Can you walk?"

You nod, but—

"My mother—she's hurt. I can't leave without her."

He glances down, sees what's left of her. You think, _I know it looks bad, but she can't be dead. She can't be_. _I can't be alone._

The acid leaves his eyes, and you watch him hopefully.

"I'll do my best to save her." He points toward the river, the one with all the ferries and boats. "My men are guarding the escape route. I've killed all the Titans between here and there. It's two minutes on foot. Can you run for me?"

You nod again. He helps you to your feet, and when you stand, you see his full height and wonder how such a small man has killed so many Titans. His hands are steaming with their blood, but you do not care, holding on tightly. You squeeze his fingers before letting go, looking pleadingly into his eyes. You will remember that they are slate grey and beautiful.

"Please help her."

The stranger nods.

"I will."

He raises a gun and shoots upward, golden smoke colouring the sky.

"Now run."

* * *

**Levi pauses his writing, reading over the form:**

**_Please name your next of kin:_ **

* * *

Levi's mother is beautiful, and everyone says that he is the spitting image of her: dark, thick hair; slim, grey eyes; and a delicate but beautiful jaw. He doesn't know what half the words mean, but he overhears one of the men saying it to her almost every night: _You are so beautiful, Olympia. Why are you stuck in this hellhole?_

Of all the men, Levi dislikes this one the least. None of the others rarely say a single good thing about her, and at least three of them have called her a "bitch". He'd once let the word slip out over breakfast, and his mother had pulled his ear so hard that he yelped.

Of course, it hadn't _actually_ hurt. Levi knows what _real_ hurting looks like. His mother experiences real hurting almost every night. She tries to hide it from him, but he's not stupid. He knows. And it makes him cling onto her tightly. Whenever he's hurt, she strokes his hair and sings him lullabies, so he tries to do the same for her.

Levi's mother is beautiful in sunlight. There's only a small patch of it in the Underground, available through a sinkhole that caved open some years ago, but she somehow always manages to take time out in the day to bring him to it. "It's good for you," she says each time.

"Can we see go up top and see the sun someday, Mama?"

"Of course, sweetheart." She kisses his forehead. "It'll take a lot of time, but I'll get us up there. I promise."

Levi squints up at that blinding light, wondering what it would be like to have the sun instead of lamps, and to have the stars instead of candles. It must be neat, he thinks, but he knows he will have to be patient.

Levi's mother is beautiful when she laughs. The men don't know the half of it: they talk all the time about how pretty she is, but Levi thinks she looks the best when there's a smile stretched wide across her face, her face red from laughter. She adjusts the cloth hanging out from his collar. "See?" She runs a hand through his hair. "It's a cravat!" Levi doesn't know what a cravat is, but her giggling makes him laugh, and he finds himself agreeing, "A cravat!"

Levi's mother is beautiful, but she doesn't last. The early years of his childhood are like a dreamy fog, covering up all these moments of hope and joy and sorrow. When the haze lifts, it reveals an emaciated corpse and the first man to ever call his mother "Kuchel" instead of "Olympia".

"What's your name, kid?"

The man is nothing like his mother. He does not care if Levi sees the sun, and he does not care when Levi gets hurt. He tells Levi to sit with the pain and hurt people back. He teaches Levi to do that: real hurting. It's hard at first, but then he becomes a natural at it. Sometimes he dreams about his mother scolding him for it and pulling his ear, and he wakes up with his chest hurting. And his mentor does not care.

Kenny will become the closest thing he'll ever have to next of kin. To a father.

It's absolute shit.

* * *

**Mikasa tugs at her scarf, nearly hiding her face with it: a habit you recognize from her childhood.**

**“I’ll always be grateful that you took care of us, back then… but why did you do it?”**

* * *

If Shiganshina had been the mouth of hell, then the refugee camps are its first circle. 

The lot of you are assigned numbers, like you are no longer human. You sleep on thin sheets spread out over the warehouse floor, the cement hard beneath your body. Without showers, the stench of human sweat and odour gradually becomes overwhelming, suffocating you. Slowly, the food supply whittles down: the bread and cheese turn to plain loaves; the loaves turn to crumbs; the crumbs turn to nothing. Your stomach churns and bites at itself, and the hunger is so great that you often feel bile crawling up your dry throat.

You are unsurprised when fights break out among the refugees. It is a terrible thing, starvation, capable of making people so ravenous that they are ready to kill. It makes you wonder if humanity is only a stone’s throw away from the Titans.

The conditions are inhumane, but the worst part of the camp is the soldiers. You are less than cattle to them: hungry mouths to feed without the promise of profit. There is no pity for “your lot”, as they call you. When you scream in your sleep the first few nights, you are woken up by a boot digging harshly into your ribs.

“Shut the hell up! Shit, you’re so loud. There are people trying to sleep!”

If it were other refugees, you would understand the anger, the frustration. But it’s always a soldier, irate even if they are supposed to be awake anyway, supposedly keeping the peace. Grimacing, you roll onto your stomach, staring up at the rose-adorned crest. You stare at the soldier’s face, hoping that your glare cuts into it like acid. But you do not speak.

After all, you are just a hungry mouth.

“Ugly bitch,” he sneers, walking away. “At least you’re quiet now.”

Between the hunger and the nightmares, you find the edges of your mind crumbling. There is only one thing keeping it together.

“Are you okay?” A small hand tugs at your sleeve. “He hurt you.”

“What a piece of shit!” The boy beside her kicks the floor, spitting.

Despite the situation, your reaction is instinctive. You twist your mouth, scolding the child: “ _Language,_ Eren!”

Eren Jaeger is a boy from Shiganshina. His father, Doctor Jaeger, had treated both you and your mother when the plague had swept through your town. Your mother often said that all of Wall Maria was indebted to him, because he alone had found a way to fight the illness. In return, you had brought him gifts and met his entire family: Carla Jaeger, Eren Jaeger, and Mikasa Ackerman. Whenever you used to venture into Shiganshina district for errands and shopping, it wasn’t uncommon to see the two kids weaving in and out of the crowds, pausing mid-run to wave to you.

And now, Eren and Mikasa are the only ones from the Jaeger Household still alive. And while it is difficult for you to survive, you can only imagine what it is like for them. They are barely eleven years old, hungry and orphaned and threatened by the world.

You have decided that if you will not hold onto your sanity for yourself, then you must do it for them. Mister Arlert is old, and getting sicker by the day. Hannes checks in on them, but he is busy with his duties, trying to organize the disgraceful Garrison Regiment. You can be irresponsible toward yourself—wallowing, crying, breaking down—but you cannot leave these children alone. Your humanity will not allow you to. It would not allow _anyone_ to, you think.

And so, when Eren frowns, looking down, you try to let go of your rage toward that soldier. Breathing in deeply, you try to soften your voice.

“…I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” You pat the tops of their heads. Mikasa looks up, while Eren stares down at your blanket.

“I won’t be like that when I’m in the military,” he vows quietly.

You raise a brow.

“You want to join the military?”

“The Scouts!” he affirms, and you can see Mikasa visibly staring at him, eyebrows knotted. “I’ll do my job. I’ll kill all the Titans and save humanity. Nobody will end up like this—not when all of _them_ are gone.”

Such big dreams, you think. It’s characteristic to young children, but worrying nonetheless. Eren’s always been a bit of a firecracker, but he’s been particularly unhinged ever since your arrival in Trost. It’s been worrying, watching him stew with grief and rage and not being able to do more than just listen. This, at least, explains a bit more about what's been going on in his head.

Maybe you can allay it.

You poke at his cheek, and he recoils, his fire temporarily stolen.

“You’re adorable, Eren—”

He scowls.

“—but you’re talking about doing something very dangerous.” You smile wryly. “Always giving Mikasa something to worry about.”

“I’ll take care of him,” she pipes up. “I’ll join the Scouts and protect him.”

Eren’s frown deepens.

“I don’t need you to take care of me! I’m not a _kid,_ Mikasa—”

“Actually, you are,” you cut in mildly. “You’re eleven. You’re _both_ eleven. You _both_ need to be taken care of.” You pass them a little smile. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Eren goes red in the face, but holds his tongue. He doesn’t exactly look angry with you—you’ve gotten the sense that some part of him actually _likes_ being fussed over—but he isn’t happy, either.

“…I’m still gonna do it,” he mutters after a few moments, defiant.

“I’m sure you will,” you reply sweetly. “But definitely not tonight. Why are the two of you still up? Let’s get you into bed.”

And despite the sharp sting and ache in your chest, despite the bruise from the soldier’s boot, you lift yourself up so that you can beckon them to their own thin sheets. Beside them, Armin is already slumbering away, his face so deeply buried in sheets that only his straw-coloured hair is visible. Your eyes soften; he’s another reason to keep yourself steady.

When you get Mikasa and Eren into bed, you wait by their sides until they fall asleep. Just like everyone else in this shelter, they squirm and mutter as they slumber, chased by the Titans even their dreams.

It is Eren who worries you the most, so full of emotion and not knowing what to do with it. On occasion, he’s opened up to you about what he witnessed in Shiganshina, whispering harshly as heavy tears roll down his cheeks, trying not to wake up Mikasa or Armin. “I’ll never see her again,” he says to you, his little voice cracking. “ _Never again._ ” And when you wipe the tears away from his face, they only come faster, eyes overflowing with fury and grief.

And now, whenever he calls for his mother in his sleep, you find yourself stroking his hair, humming gently into his ear. And for good measure, you do the same for Mikasa. 

Carla Jaeger probably would have done this for her son, you think. Your own mother might have done this for you, were she here and could witness the way you kick and scream in your sleep. Of course, the two of you would sometimes fight, would have your differences, but she was still your mother, still fed you, still raised you—

—and now she’s _gone_ , and there’s no one in this warehouse who will protect you like this, who will stroke your hair and kiss your forehead and stay with you as you have nightmares… 

An emptiness gnaws at you, an ache fingering your heart. A warmth pricks at the back of your eyes, but stubbornly, you hold back. There will be time to cry later, you tell yourself. First, you must make sure that these children will sleep soundly tonight.

Eren twitches in his sleep again, but this time, his face relaxes.

“…Mom…”

A breath escapes his lips.

Your eyes droop, and you bring your knees up to your chest. As you watch their breathing even out, you consider what Mikasa and Eren had been saying earlier. They put you to shame, you think. They put _all_ the refugees to shame. Looking Hell in the face and wanting to live, wanting to fight…

There is no one else awake, but you whisper aloud, “The Scouts, hm?” You study the pavement, thinking carefully. “What an idea.”

Eren has a lot of flawed, rash impulses, just like most boys his age. But his desire to protect humanity isn’t such a bad one, you think. The Scouts are often criticised and ridiculed, but perhaps more than anyone else within the Walls, you understand their importance.

_Can you run for me?_

Your consciousness drifts. The cement walls and night sky crumble, revealing cobblestone, bloodied knees, and spilled milk.

This time, instead of dreaming about the Titan and your mother, you dream about the man who saved you. You remember his cloak, the blue-and-white Wings of Freedom. You remember the subtle kindness, the understanding that you would not let go of your mother. You remember the yellow streak across the sky: his signal for his team members to save you.

You glance again at the two kids sleeping before you, thin and vulnerable.

It would be nice, you cannot help but think, if you could save someone else.

* * *

**Levi can see the lamplight flickering in your eyes. The air is heady with your scent, and he finds himself intoxicated.**

**You lean in, whispering:**

**"How did you know what I went through in Trost?"**

* * *

When rumours about the camps trickle in, it takes every ounce of practiced self-discipline for Levi not to lose it. Starving people without homes, without protection, and without hope: it's every bit of the childhood nightmare he'd been so glad to leave. Even just walking through Trost's refugee camps reminds him of all his peers in the Underground. Thank fuck he doesn't need to go there often. That's shit for the Military Police to handle, though it’s not like they ever actually do any work.

But Shadis does occasionally take the commanding officers to Trost, if only to go to the Wall and scope out potential mission plans. There's been talk of a mass expedition lately, of sending out all the refugees to reclaim Wall Maria. The plan is from the top brass and is a transparent attempt to get rid of all the hungry, expensive mouths in Trost, but good King Fritz needs to put on a show for the people: the expedition must be planned and led by the best of the Survey Corps, including their veteran commander and Humanity's Strongest. _Spare me,_ he keeps thinking. He didn't join the Corps to be a fucking propaganda symbol, but that's what he's become.

"Fucking hell," Levi bites out, surveying the crowd. They're tired, worn down, some of them fully in rags. "This is what King Fritz is giving me to work with? This is hopeless."

"Tell me about it," the Garrisoner replies. "All they do is take up space and food and bitch about both. 'Bout time we send them back over Wall Rose."

Levi decides he hates the guy.

"And I can pencil you in to lead the charge, right? Unless all you're good for is taking up space on Wall Rose and bitching?"

He splutters something out, but Levi's already turning around and leaving. He doesn't have time for petty shit like this. He'll report back to the Corps: the situation in the refugee camps is as bad as they thought. It'll be lambs to the slaughter, and it'll all be under Keith Shadis’ muddy name. At least Erwin will get that promotion soon; Levi can’t wait for the day he’ll finally fight under a competent commander.

He's trying to weave his way out of the crowd, avoiding puddles and filthy-looking strays, when a hand grabs his sleeve. Some other Garrison fuckwit, probably. He glances back, irate.

" _What?_ "

It’s a girl. By the look of her face, she can’t be a day over sixteen. She shrinks backward, all clacking knees and dewy eyes, and Levi finds the snarl melting from his face. She's not in uniform; she's in rags.

"Can I help you?" he asks in the mildest voice he can manage.

"Um, maybe." She looks nervous. Her eyes keep looking him up and down, and suddenly, he's got a bad feeling. She's skinny and underfed like everyone else here, but she's doing a bit better than most people. Almost immediately, he knows how. When her fingers curl around his hand, his stomach tries to crawl through his throat. If he were younger, he'd pull it back like she's stung him, trying not to vomit. "You're new to this camp, right? I thought you'd maybe want a warm welcome."

He raises a brow.

"Prostitution is illegal," he states bluntly. "Condemned by law and by Church."

She goes as white as a sheet.

"Don't worry." He looks away. "If you're soliciting me because I'm fresh military blood, it tells me who your customers are. I'm much more interested in reporting those pigs than you." He steps away, finds himself holding back a sigh when his hand is freed. The feeling of her brittle, desperate grip lingers, and he idly thinks that he would much prefer to be stained with Titan blood than this. That’s a different type of filth: more tolerable, more transient, and not as heartrending. "We never met," he reassures her, and then she’s turning away, practically running.

He ends up writing up two reports: one for Keith Shadis, and one for Nile Dok. The latter promises him that the Military Police will take action against the obvious abuse of power by the Garrison Regiment, including their exploitation of destitute, starving girls.

Nile sounds like he actually believes the horseshit that's spilling from his mouth, but Levi isn't fooled. He knows just how little the Military Police care about prostitutes. The knowledge is burned into his dreams. There had definitely been an MP in his childhood home at one point, proudly wearing the unicorn crest as he disappeared into his mother's room.

Levi tries not to think about the aftermath too much. Whenever the memory plays out, he tends to get sick.

* * *

**Oluo seems skeptical when he studies you: a fresh graduate who’s never stepped foot outside the Walls.**

**“Why did you even join in the first place, huh?”**

* * *

“You’re joining the Scouts?!” 

Your eyes soften when you look at the pair of them: Eren is full of wonder, and Mikasa is carefully silent, her scarf hiding half her face. You crouch down so that you can look at them at eye level, and you take care to give Mikasa a reassuring smile.

"Yes, I am. I won't be a Scout for another three years, but at least I'll be in the military. They'll pay me there. I'll wire Mister Arlert some money each month to keep you all fed, okay?"

You are comforting the both of them, but you find that you are also trying to convince yourself. You are making the right decision, you think. You glance at your surroundings. Even as you speak, there are people around you fighting for food, thinning faces and swollen bellies. The Garrison soldiers have already solicited you for sex in exchange for food, but you've done the math: even if you prostituted yourself, there aren't enough rations to go around, and they won't care enough to pay you with money.

Any personal aspirations aside, the military is also your best bet at survival.

“I'll go with you! I’m joining too!” Eren declares. His chest puffs up, and the smile you try to bite back is genuine.

"Sorry, kid, but you're still eleven." You pat his head, messing up his hair. "You've got one more year to go."

Mikasa finally speaks up, voice soft: "Won't it be hard going alone? What if you don't survive the training?"

You straighten up, winking. "I'll be way older than most of the fresh recruits. I'll outlast them all, just you wait."

"They'll take you even though you're so old?"

"Ouch, Eren! Tact!" You feign hurt, but the joke doesn't even register. He's just watching you, mouth open, farming as much information about the military as he can. You humour him, practically melting at his enthusiasm. "Most people enlist at twelve just to get it over with, but there's no rule against older people doing so. They'll let me in." _They need the people,_ you think, _after the fall of Wall Maria._

The soldiers here keep speaking of it bitterly—most of the Garrison troop had died to save the “rats” from Shiganshina. Only those “crazy Survey Corps fuckers” had gotten out intact. Every time you hear the words, it's hard not to turn around and scream at them: _Where were you, you Garrison shitheads? Fucking useless!_ You can't help but think of that slate-eyed soldier who saved you, who'd helped you to your feet and told you to run.

You wonder if you will see him in the military, or if he too has died.

* * *

**Levi will remember it forever: the look in your eyes, the way you rest your hand on his shoulder. The touch is so gentle that it feels foreign.**

**“Why shouldn’t you feel regret?**

* * *

Levi’s time spent with Farlan and Isabel becomes a collection of persistent memories. They are a peaceful, beautiful fog, not too different from the ghost of his mother. Farlan’s easiness and bright wit is the perfect balance to Levi’s cold aggression. Isabel becomes a little sister he’s never wanted, but is glad to have. In a strange way, taking her in had been a kindness to himself: in the moment she’d come bowling through their door, dirty and worn down and hugging an injured bird to her chest, Levi understood the tiny kernel of human decency that must have motivated Kenny to adopt him when he was a kid. 

Life with Farlan and Isabel is a gentle mist, and when it rolls away, it reveals: rain falling onto a bittersweet smile; the bloodied stare of a displaced head; two corpses scattered beneath endless skies. Levi cries, screams, draws his blades and swings them at Erwin, because he has _lost_ someone again, because he is _alone_ again. Perhaps a normal man would have had a different reaction—a less _violent_ reaction—but he does what Kenny taught him to do: he sits with the pain; he lashes out; he intimidates and he tries to kill.

And then he buries it.

Erwin’s voice booms with a morose conviction. The words roar in Levi’s ear, louder than the rain, louder than thunder, and more permanent than mist: “Don’t regret. If you allow yourself to regret, it will dull your decisions in the future.”

The sentiment resonates with him. Levi barely knows Erwin, but he can tell that he is a better man than Kenny will ever be. Still, the both of them give the same, practical sort of advice. _There’s no use crying over your mom, kid. She’s dead, and wailing and starving won’t bring her back. It’ll just fuck up your future._

Levi refuses to fuck up his future, to dull it with self-pity. He will move forward. He will follow Erwin’s lead, and he will give himself purpose by joining the Scouts. It’ll only feel right anyway, to kill the ugly fuckers that have taken away his family.

It will be the last time he cries for a long while. The next time will be six years later, silently and in your arms.

* * *

**“Listen up, Titan snacks! Which one of you pathetic runts would like to volunteer yourselves to die for the Special Operations Squad?”**

* * *

It is strange seeing the three of them growing up. Only a year and a half has passed, but Eren and Mikasa are both quickly losing the fat in their cheeks, their cheekbones cutting hardened expressions into their face. Armin still looks as youthful as ever, but the Cadet Corps are still shaping an intelligence into his eye, a sense of purpose. You must admit to yourself that you feel a little proud. They went from lost little kids in Trost, struggling out in the labour camps and crying on cement floors, to promising soldiers filled with purpose.

But of course, they will always remain children in your eyes.

“Hey!” You weave through the crowd, practically run up to them all, hugging them. As soon as you pull away, you’re looking them up and down. “Wow, you’re all growing so much! Have they been feeding you well? Are you sleeping well? Are you drinking enough water?”

The reactions vary. Eren makes a face, goes a little red: he still has mixed feelings about being treated like a kid, at least by you. He still probably _hates_ it from Mikasa, even though nobody can blame her for her mothering. As for her, her expression remains as calm and neutral as ever, save for the nearly imperceptible softening of her eyes.

Armin, on the other hand, laughs fully.

“You don’t have to worry about us!” he says. “We’re being taken care of as much as you!” He blinks at you, curious. “How’s the 103rd treating you, anyway?”

“It’s not bad, but thank God I’m almost out of here.” You have half a year left.

“Still going to join the Scouts?” Mikasa asks. For a moment, she looks a bit like that child in the refugee camps: concerned for you despite her own convictions. But you are set in your path.

“Yes. I’m excited to finally get on the field and do some good.”

“Yeah! You get it!” Eren nods vigorously, staring with the sort of unfettered intensity he’s had since his childhood. Apparently, he’s not yet outgrown it. “I wish more people here had that sort of attitude. I can’t stand being surrounded by all these cattle, just excited to go to the Interior and graze their lives away.” He growls, and it’s apparent that he’s probably gotten into another spat with someone in the 104th over this.

You find your mouth twisting. Eren will someday destroy himself like this, you think, living up to his nickname of “Suicidal Bastard”. It’s your responsibility to at least _try_ to steer him away from it. Carla Jaeger would have wanted you to.

“Don’t be rude, Eren. Everyone has their reasons.” You go the old route of tapping his cheek, and he recoils, temporarily mollified. “You know that I didn’t entirely join the military _just_ to fight Titans, right? I didn’t keep that a secret. Everyone joins with different purposes.”

Eren deflates a little then.

“…yeah.” He looks down. “Thanks. For doing all that.”

You smack him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s no big deal. I’m basically your babysitter. It’s my job.”

“Gah!” He scowls. “No it’s not! I’m not a kid anymore! I don’t need anyone taking care of me!”

“You’re, what, thirteen? You’re definitely still a kid,” you tease. “Until you can grow facial hair and shave, you’re just a kid.”

He scoffs. “Well, whether or not I’m young, I know what I’m doing anyway.” Eren looks off to the side, gaze fiery. “I want to join _them._ ”

His words are nearly drowned by the murmuring crowd, by the clicking of shifting gears as the gate of Wall Rose begins to ascend. On the other side is a group of cloaked soldiers sitting atop horses: the heroes at homecoming. Unlike the Survey Corps of your childhood, this new commander leads a group that inspires excitement in the crowd that’s gathered around them. His revolutionary tactics have reduced the mortality rate of expeditions, and the branch has overall seen a rise in public approval ever since the fall of Wall Maria.

People have finally begun to recognise what you’ve known all along: that the Scouts are necessary; that they are _heroes._

Your eyes follow the procession of them, dirty and worn but eyes hard with purpose. There’s Commander Erwin Smith, with his golden hair and unwavering gaze. There’s Squad Leader Hange, with her glasses glinting over her clever and bright eyes. There’s Mike Zacharias, Humanity’s Second Strongest…

And there’s Humanity’s Strongest. Levi Ackerman.

Your eyes follow his form carefully as he rides past you. He always looks tired and hard returning from expeditions, and his expression always speaks of a certain disdain at the crowd. It is sometimes hard for you to believe that such an introverted, alienating man is the same one who had rescued you all those years ago. But his sharp, grey gaze is unforgettable, and you know that it is him, and you remember how he softened for you in your darkest moment, and you know that he is a good man.

And every time you see him, you are reminded that Eren, despite his childish intensity, is understandable in some ways.

“I know what you mean.”

Even though Captain Levi never notices you in the crowd, you always notice him, and you always remember the other half of your purpose in joining the military.

“I want to join them too.”

* * *

**Erwin eyes the collection of profiles on Levi’s desk.**

**"What of the new recruitment strategy for the Special Ops? Have you found anyone promising from the 103 rd?”**

* * *

By the time they get to the last interviewee, Levi's ready to snap.

He understands Erwin's suggestion: that to get fresh blood into his Special Operations Squad, they can't just take any old vet. Most of them want to lead their own sections and have their own way of doing things on the field. Every soldier can follow instructions and strategies to a T, but knowing the ins and outs of their teammates—their movements, their hesitations, their expressions, and even their breathing patterns—is a different story. And that's what Squad Levi relies on: the entire team working as a whole.

Only _he_ ever acts as a solo agent.

Levi knows this, knows that the best way to introduce a new squad member is to take a fresh graduate and train them to his liking. The plan is to take the best of the best of the 103rd out on an immediate mission, and then to handpick the one to be groomed by his team.

It’s sound in theory. He's watched the cadets in action and interviewed the best profiles that Shadis handed him. They have the skills, the intelligence, the metrics... but somehow, they've all been _shit._ Back in the Underground, Levi had been easily able to sniff out and exploit weakness, and he’s noticed a _lot_ of weakness in these cadets. They're kids so young they probably still wet the bed, talking big about how they'll kill all the Titans. A lot of them have delusions about fighting behind "Humanity's Strongest", about the heroism of the Special Operations Squad. _Dumbasses,_ he thinks _._ There's no glamour in dying.

Motivations like that will easily lead to regret.

When the last candidate knocks on his door, he's relieved. _Finally. This shitshow will be over._ He takes out the biography, skims it as the candidate moves to his desk, salutes, and introduces themselves. When they have barked out their name, they simply stand at attention, completely still.

After a satisfying amount of time has passed, his gaze flicks up.

_Passed the first test._ Some of the kids have had the gall to ask to take a seat, even getting impatient. If they can’t stand at attention for a couple of minutes, they definitely won’t be able to take orders on the field without bitching about it.

"Sit," he orders.

And when Levi's eyes meet yours, he pauses.

Maybe Shadis has finally given him something decent to work with.

_Older than the others. Not a kid._ He taps a finger, thinking. _Could be harder to train, but at least I won't have to babysit._ You don't shy away from his gaze, simply returning it impassively. _Good_. That's the bare minimum.

Something about your expression catches his eye, and he glances at your profile out of curiosity.

_Ah,_ he thinks. _There it is._

"You're from Wall Maria."

* * *

**Levi’s expression is distant, submerged in the past. Across the table from him, you smile, your own expression filled with nostalgia.**

**“I was so nervous when I first met you. I mean—when I first met you _for real._ ”**

**“That’s an understatement. You looked like you were about to shit yourself.”**

**“I really thought I might!”**

**His lip quirks.**

**“Still, I still saw something in you.”**

* * *

When Captain Levi finally speaks with you, it takes every ounce of willpower, painstakingly developed during basic training, for you not to sigh in relief. Here’s Levi Ackerman—your literal hero, in addition to being the idol of the Scouting Legion—and here you are, inexperienced and barely out of your Training Corps uniform. You still feel unworthy of the winged crest on your left shoulder.

_Keep it together,_ you tell yourself, and you steel yourself the way you did during training, during those refugee camps. Suffering is a small pride, but it’s one that you can hold onto during times like these.

“You’re from Wall Maria,” he starts.

"Yes, sir."

Somehow, your voice is solid. If the captain notices your anxiety, he doesn’t let on, simply continuing to watch you coolly.

"Yet you want to join the Scouting Legion?"

"Yes, sir."

For some reason, he snorts. You try not to raise a brow—you’ve never gotten this reaction before—and listen with the straightest face you can manage.

"You must be either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. If you're like most cadets, you're stupid." He leans back, crosses his arms and gives you his best glare. It’s jarring to be insulted and then to be additionally cut apart by his eyes, but you hold steady, and he presses on. At least he hasn’t given up on this interview; you’ll call that a win. "Why us? Why not the Military Police? You have the grades for it."

This is an easy answer.

"Because I saw what happened at Wall Maria."

He lifts a brow.

"Hm. Fair enough. Why not the Garrison Regiment, then?"

The confidence leaves you, drains out of your voice and your face. Your throat is filled with rocks, your mind wrestling between the truth and the politically correct lie. You know you should answer. The second hand on the clock is ticking away, and the captain’s expression is souring.

"Come on now," he drawls. "We don't have all day."

You swallow, unable to get the words out. The memories rewind in your head, echoing: _Where were you? Fucking useless!_ They are his own words, but you can’t repeat them. That would be insubordination. That would be treason.

He notices your nerves.

"What are you afraid of?" His voice is dry. "Don't worry. I promise my desk won't attack you. Can't say the same for the Titans beyond the Walls, though."

At the very least, you don't blush. You _do_ feel yourself sinking into the seat, though.

_Keep it together,_ you repeat in your head. _If you survived back then, you can survive this._

"...the Garrison Regiment is a respected and noble section of the military." Your voice is less of a soldier's bark and more of a halting whisper. You wonder if he’ll berate you more, but as your eyes connect, you see his expression level out. It emboldens you, presses you on with impeccably formal language. "They saved many of the refugees and administered our camps in Trost. However, after observing their actions in Trost, I believe that I am better suited to the duties of the Scouting Legion."

Captain Levi’s mouth thins. You hold your breath, hoping that he doesn’t read between the lines of your words.

But he does.

"…well, at least I know you're a survivor if you lived through that shithole they called a refugee camp."

You blink, shifting. He lifts a brow.

“What? You _didn’t_ think it was a shithole? You’d be stupid not to.”

“No, sir…” You scramble for words, trying to reply professionally. “The living conditions were harsh, but I believe the Regiment did the best they could.”

He stares at you, his expression somewhere in between impatient and derisive. “Trying to be polite, huh? I don’t need to hear that kind of lip service. That camp was one of the _filthiest_ places I’ve ever seen, and that’s including everything from the Underground to the fucking Survey Corps common toilet.”

You try not to choke.

“I see…” You clear your throat. “I agree with your assessment, sir. I just didn’t think that a soldier…”

“…would say it out loud? I can shittalk those bastards all I want. I’m practically a walking publicity campaign for the military.” He scoffs, clearly irate at the thought, but he’s moving on before you can react. “Anyway, if you're going by process of elimination, the Scouting Legion might take you, but I won't. I've got no time to train half-assed brats."

Ah. Another easy answer. You straighten up, feeling back in your element.

"It's not a process of elimination for me, sir."

He raises a brow, clearly skeptical.

"No?"

You shake your head.

"No. The truth is, it was the Scouting Legion who saved me the day that Wall Maria fell."

Levi looks up, eyes you carefully. You open your mouth, wondering if this is the moment you’ll finally do it. The words have been resting in your throat for years: _thank you for saving me. I can live because of you._ All of those early, lonely days in the Trost camps itch at your throat. All of your dreams on that warehouse floor prod at your eyes. All of those moments of admiration as you watched him leaving through the gates threaten to spill over.

But Levi raises his hand and writes a note on the clipboard. He’s finished with you. You feel yourself looking down, disappointment beginning to set in.

But then—

"I'll see you tomorrow at 0800, in full gear. Don't be late, rookie."

_Holy shit._ You stand, and try your hardest to hide your smile.

“Thank you, sir.” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice. “I won’t disappoint you.”

You will be on time, as you will be every day after. When you cross the gates and ride across the field, you do not let your conviction waiver. You do not flinch when you see a Titan for the first time in years, because you have already seen their terrible grins and smelled their coppery, stinking breath, and you have survived both. You survived because of _him._

You will make your first kill that next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm testing the waters with this fic, which has been weirdly labour intensive to write, so please let me know if you enjoyed this and if you would like to see more! 
> 
> I also wanted to address the age gap between the reader and Levi: you're in your late teens when Wall Maria falls, but you're 20+ when you meet Levi as a soldier. The exact age is up to you, but I just want to make it clear that this romance does not involve a teenager, haha.


	2. The First Crossing: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind comments and kudos everyone! They were really encouraging during the writing process of this new chapter! And once again, shout-out to [gr-ywaren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gr_ywaren) for being a fantastic beta! 
> 
> **Please see the end of the chapter for world-building and characterization notes.**

* * *

**Of all the reactions that Levi had been expecting from you, it had not been acceptance.**

**“I’m not upset,” you reassure him. “I just want to know why, so that I’ll know how to help."**

* * *

Levi is thirteen when Kenny brings a whore into their home for the first time.

He stays in his room the whole time, but the walls in their shitty, little house are paper thin. After a short-lived childhood of repulsive men and bruises on his mother’s skin, the tone of the woman’s voice is enough for Levi to recognise the nature of this interaction—of this _transaction._ There’s a clicking of heels, a little giggle as she swats away what must be Kenny’s wandering hands. The laughter is an obvious veneer. It hides a quiet calculation, something that his mother had always done after inviting clients into their home. _Will he threaten me? Will he hurt me? Will he hurt my son?_

Levi had been too young at the time to realize what was happening, but he’s more than old enough now.

“…love blondes…tip ya real well, honey,” Kenny says to her, voice slithering through the cracks in the walls. Levi feels a familiar wave of disgust running through his stomach. “…if ya do a good job for me.”

Another laugh. The two of them stumble into Kenny’s room, and Levi closes his eyes. He lets himself fall onto the bed, stuffs his head beneath the pillows. His mother had always told him to cover his ears, and he does it religiously.

Levi’s grateful when he feels himself drifting off. But it’s a dreamless, uncomfortable sleep, and he wakes up again in the dead of night, when nothing but silence fills the Underground like it’s some big, hideous tomb. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, but his throat is parched dry and sticky with dust. The Underground air does that to people. It’s not uncommon to hack up blood in the morning, bright red and revolting.

Personally, he can’t stand the sight of something so filthy. He needs water, he decides. Levi rolls out of bed and steps out of the door, oil lamp in hand—

Only to run straight into the prostitute leaving his home.

The two of them stay still for a few moments, just staring.

She ends up being the one to break the silence.

“He never said he had a kid.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Levi finds himself replying. “I’m not his. Just someone he’s babysitting.”

In the dim light, he can see her face twist despite the words. It’s thin and gaunt, mostly cheekbones and angles. The blonde hair that Kenny had been praising is listless, more dust than gold. She’s been eating worse than him.

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

The guilt is interesting. He wonders if she’s a mother.

“I’m older than I look,” he offers again. But he doesn’t like it, this thought that she regrets this action. And he’d rather her get out of his home. “…anyway, you should get out of here. I can’t imagine you’d want to stick around and see more of _that._ ” He glances at the door to Kenny’s room, left ajar. He can hear him snoring like a pig.

She’s quiet.

He turns around. She can take care of herself, he thinks. This is her profession.

But before he heads for the kettle, he says, “Kenny’s a fucked up guy. If he’s hurt you, there’s gauze and alcohol on the table. Painkillers too. Whiskey if you’d prefer that instead.”

She leaves without speaking, and he feels himself exhaling, relieved. It’s not that he wouldn’t want to help an injured woman fix herself up; it’s just that he isn’t sure if he’d remember how to. When his mother had been alive, he’d been a balanced enough kid to help her out whenever she got injured. But Levi’s not sure if he’s balanced enough to do that anymore, especially not for a stranger.

After all, Kenny teaches him a lot of things, but healing isn’t one of them. Comfort isn’t one of them. In the Underground, there’s no room for relationships or intimacy or lessons that would lay the foundation for such things. The closest thing he gets is Kenny tossing a wad of bills at him over the counter after he completes his first job, eyeing him carefully.

“Never seen you with a woman. Go out and get yourself one.”

Levi studies the bills. They’ve been through a lot of hands, are probably peppered with miscellaneous drugs. Dirty as hell—he doesn’t want to touch them.

“Or a man,” Kenny adds. “I don’t give a shit.”

Levi does not reply. He does not take the money, and vows never to step foot into a whorehouse. They are people’s homes, and while he has no issues terrorizing the scum of the Underground, the people living there aren’t scum. They don’t deserve the extra edge of fear he’d probably give them, the intimidation that Kenny had instilled into him. 

And because he never learns any better, it’s a logic that will continue to dictate his actions. It controls him through his teenage years, makes him push serving girls off his lap. It mostly keeps him honest in his adult years too, when he’s running his own gig with Farlan and there are people eyeing the most powerful thugs of the Underground. It kills any attraction he might feel for his admirers once he establishes himself in the Corps, all of them fawning over Humanity’s Strongest. Whenever younger girls giggle at him, he makes sure to glare at them with an extra edge. _Don’t bother,_ he tries to communicate with his eyes. He has no time to learn softness, relationships, intimacy. There’s work to be done, Titans begging to be killed.

But for all his skepticism, Levi eventually does learn. It takes a while, though.

It doesn’t happen until he meets you.

* * *

**Eren’s eyes shine in the way they used to in his childhood, whenever he watched the Survey Corps return through the gates at Shiganshina.**

**“What was your first mission like?”**

* * *

There is no room for fear during your first mission.

All the new graduates follow the veterans out on the 49th expedition. The fear is visible on the faces of most of your peers from the 103rd, but there are a couple of you with mask-like expressions. You are one of them. You’ve talked to the others before, although you do not know them all that well: Elias from the village east of your town; Lottie from south of you, straight in the heart of Shiganshina.

Your resolve does not make you special. It is the natural consequence of trauma, of being forced to adapt. It’s a curse from knowing the odour of Titan’s breath, of having seen the spaces between their teeth.

Still, it is useful during the expedition. You do not waver when Titans near your flank, and your horse does not flinch, running at a steady gallop. Your hand is steady when you raise the signal gun, pitch black smoke climbing the sky. When the two men leading your squad seem overwhelmed by the abnormal, you are quick to assist them.

You learn that Titan flesh is denser than it has the right to be. You throw your entire body into the momentum of your wires, but you still feel resistance to your blade as it runs through the nape. You remember what Captain Levi looked like four years ago, cutting down giants as though they were made of paper, and you do not know how he managed it.

When the Titan falls over, a shaky sigh escapes your lips.

Afterward, you and a few others are approached by the captain. He doesn’t give the chance to rest from your expedition, simply tells you to line up in a row and face him. He recites each of your achievements: an assist, a kill, and a kill.

When he looks at you, you hold your breath, entire body tensing. _I tried my best,_ you think. _If it doesn’t happen, then it doesn’t._

“I heard you killed an abnormal,” he remarks. “It put up a fight, but apparently, you were lightning fast.” There’s no praise in his tone.

“Yes, sir,” you affirm, voice equally neutral. “With assistance from my team. It would never have happened without them.”

He pauses at the reply, and you think you catch a slight nod. The captain looks thoughtful, but when he speaks next, there’s no change in his tone.

“Take off your gas canisters.”

You lift a brow, staring blankly. Did you hear him correctly?

“…sir?”

“The canisters,” he repeats, an edge of irritation to his tone. “The big metal things attached to your waist? I’m sure they mentioned them in training.”

You can feel the incredulous stares from the two other privates. You try not to blush. Captain Levi isn’t the type to humour slowness, you note silently.

“…of course, sir.”

They clatter to the ground, ringing hollow. He stares at them for a second, then kicks one.

It goes flying.

“Way over half empty,” he observes. “If another Titan had approached you, you would have been in trouble. Another one after that, and you’d be dead.”

 _Guess I’m not getting that spot on his team._ It takes effort to keep your gaze steady and to nod with poise, but you force yourself to do it anyway. You will not waste his time with a tantrum. There are worse things in life than not getting to join the Special Ops team, you tell yourself. There is worse in life than public criticism from Humanity’s Strongest. There is worse than running out of gas on a mission. There’s starving. There’s abuse. There’s dying.

This perspective is enough to check the disappointment in your voice.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do better next time.”

“You better.”

He turns around.

“I won’t tolerate pointless death on my team.”

* * *

**“…but don’t listen to him.” Petra sounds worried, and when your eyes connect, there’s an instant understanding. “You can’t let him get to you. Are you okay?”**

* * *

The Special Ops are not what you expect.

Eld and Gunther carry themselves with the quiet gravitas of the Survey Corps. They aren’t exactly intimidating—not the way that Captain Levi is—but they’re on the gruffer side when they first meet you, clear veterans sizing up a trainee.

If those two have the authentic air of the Corps, then Oluo walks with the terrible imitation of it. You stare blankly at him as he speaks at you, condescending and derisive. In a different world, you might have been taken aback, but he’s nowhere near as bad as the Garrison soldiers of your childhood. He’s nothing like the ridiculing boys from the 103rd. And he isn’t anywhere near as abrasive as Keith Shadis, anyway. Shadis hadn’t bitten off his own tongue nearly as much.

Petra is by far the most open of all of them. She has a warm smile, talks about how she’s excited to _finally_ have another girl on the team. And even though there’s an unusual camaraderie between her and Oluo, she has no tolerance for his shit.

“Why did you even join in the first place, huh?” His words are stilted because his swollen tongue is in the way. You hope your expression is professional; it’s hard not to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re part of Captain Levi’s _fanclub._ ” He sighs long-sufferingly. “We’ve got no time for girls with silly crushes.”

You lift a brow, eyeing his cravat. _If anything, **you’re** the only one in the captain’s fanclub. _But you stay quiet, acutely aware that you’re a rookie.

Petra snaps on your behalf.

“What, you think that she’s here because of a _crush?_ Why? Because she’s a woman?” She scowls. “Maybe she’s just passionate about protecting humanity. Try getting that idea into that thick skull of yours.”

You nod vigorously, relieved at the opportunity to prove Oluo wrong, even if it’s not the whole truth.

“That’s exactly why I joined—to protect humanity!”

“See?” She shoots Oluo a bitter look. “Now leave her alone.”

“Tch.” He gives a little half smirk. “You don’t have to chide me like that, Petra. You’re not my wife—”

“ _Ugh!”_ She throws up her hands, sounding so tired that you know this isn’t the first time he’s said that. “I’m tired of this. Let’s go, rookie.” Unlike everyone else, she says the title with some fondness, like it’s a nickname.

She’s got a hand on your shoulder, urging you away from your bully. Perhaps eager to redeem the professionalism of her team, she turns quickly to talking shop.

“I’ll go over the tactics that our team uses, figure out where you might fit in on the field… Oluo’s more of an offensive type, for example, and I tend to assist more. Both are important, and it makes it easier to be consistent so that we can predict each other’s movements. I know you killed a Titan on your first mission… do you think you’re more the offensive type?”

Petra smiles the whole time she talks strategy. You cannot help but smile back. 

* * *

**“I regret a lot of things, but regret is a natural part of mourning. Do you think that’s so wrong of me? To mourn?“**

* * *

In your first mission with your new squad, you are meant to restock supply lines in Wall Maria. You end up facing hostiles in a city you know well.

Shigawa is south of your hometown: a hub of activity on the other side of Trost, the perfect place for you and your mother to buy fine clothing for special occasions. You pass by unkempt gardens and storefronts, overgrowing with the herbs native to Wall Maria, spices that you have not tasted in years. There’s a store that used to belong to an elderly cobbler, all its windows shattered. He’d always fixed up your favourite pair of shoes.

But the shoes were stolen off your feet in the refugee camps, and the whole town is in shambles now, overrun by monsters.

Facing Titans here is different from facing them elsewhere. You don’t know if it’s the memories or the obstacles; you can’t help but watch all of your teammates worryingly. Captain Levi looks like he’s moving particularly recklessly today, and you keep wondering if something’s wrong, or if you’re just inexperienced. Your feet shift on the roof, sending old shingles clattering to the ground. The muscles of your legs twitch, anxious. You keep on telling yourself to obey orders, to act in a supporting role when called for. You keep on telling yourself that someone else on the Special Ops will intervene.

But no one does, and you do what you were rewarded for in your last mission: you act.

It’s a mistake.

You suppose that it’s natural for you to fuck up like this, with your actions spurred by fear and muted by hesitation. _Obey orders. Do not waste his time. Do not let him die. Disobey orders._ The thoughts scramble in your head as you fly—

Your wire throws you back, plucked like a lyre string by a massive finger. You hurtle straight into the waiting palm of a Titan, whose hand curls around your body like a coffin. It’s slick with sweat and unnatural heat, and your blade digs straight into the flesh, but the monster does not let go. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the smell of copper—

It’s Eld who ends up saving you.

When you return to the barracks, your tail is between your legs. _I’m going to get kicked out. I fucked up! I can’t even listen to some fucking orders._ He must regret choosing you, you think.

When the captain finally pulls you aside, you expect him to tear into you about your disobedience, but it’s worse. Instead, it’s about the fucking _gas canisters._

“Take them off,” he orders, nodding at the tanks.

You wince. _Oh fuck._ He’s going to chew you out for this. The whole act plays out again, like a bad joke: you’re over half empty, and the metal goes flying when he kicks a vessel. It clatters, hollow. He’s glaring at you by the time it lands.

“You’ll have to learn to manage your gas better. You were top for this sort of shit in the training environment, but that’s not enough on the field.”

You swallow, trying not to let your embarrassment show.

“Yes, sir. I’ll try my best to improve.”

His scowl deepens.

“Don’t try. _Do it._ Next time I catch you wasting gas like this, I’ll make you pay for it—and this shit is expensive as fuck.”

And that’s all he has planned, apparently, because he’s turning to leave, and your clothes are still soaked in Titan sweat, and all the punishment you’ve gotten for your disgraceful performance is _this?_

“Sir?”

He glances back.

“What?”

“…I wanted to apologize for disobeying your orders, and for endangering the team.”

Captain Levi stops.

“I’ll do better next time, sir,” you continue. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

When he circles back to talk to you, it’s not with any sort of anger. His voice is carefully neutral, almost sounds casual, even when he’s deriding your apology for its emptiness.

“Full responsibility is death, and that would be useless to me.”

You go quiet.

“I didn’t chew you out for that, because I know you’re chewing yourself out enough. You almost died. That’s punishment enough, isn’t it?”

“…but the disobedience…”

“Tch. Do you insist on feeling sorry for yourself?” His eyes narrow and he crosses his arms. You tense, expecting humiliation, but the captain surprises you. The lines fade from his expression when he continues.

“…I understand why you disobeyed orders. I was in danger, and you didn’t trust me to save myself. You didn’t trust the team to support me either, because you haven’t worked with us before. In a situation where you had no information, you had to make a judgment call. Soldiers will always have to do that beyond the Walls, Erwin’s formations be damned.”

You stay quiet, just listening. You don’t know if you’ve _ever_ heard the captain talk this much before.

“I never know whether relying on others is the right decision,” he continues. “Neither does my team, even though they’ll always opt for trust.” For the first time, Captain Levi pauses, and you think you hear a subtle shift in his tone. “…but trust can sometimes be the wrong choice. You can never know the outcome until it happens.”

You look down. Your boots are filthy, covered in mud. You don’t understand the words now, even though they’ll come to haunt you in the future, chasing you after every loss. You’ll come to miss this day, when you were too young to understand the captain’s words.

For now, you will simply remember them and vow to trust his judgment.

“…I see. Thank you for that insight.”

He glances up.

“Tch. Don’t thank me. I’m not done with you yet.” The captain doesn’t exactly scowl at you, but he certainly doesn’t look happy either. “I can accept your judgment call, but what I _didn’t_ like was the hesitation I saw. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you made a decision that you wouldn’t have regretted? No matter what?”

Silence. The answer’s stuck in your throat, but Captain Levi seems to have figured out the magic words when it comes to you: “Answer me. _That’s an order_.”

You breathe in. Deeply.

“…if the outcome had been different, I would have regretted things,” you affirm, voice quiet. “If you had died, I would have regretted not acting sooner. If I died, I would have considered my death pointless. If Eld had died rescuing me, I would have considered his death my fault.” _And isn’t it normal,_ you think defiantly, _to regret painful outcomes? Isn’t that the human thing to do? Why **shouldn’t** I feel regret?_

_Why shouldn’t **you** , Captain?_

But there must be a piece to him that is stronger than human nature, because his mouth thins and his eyes narrow.

“You’re in the Survey Corps,” he says. “You have to be less half-assed about your decisions. But I won’t hold it against you this time, rookie. You’re fresh without much experience. It’s my job to train you. It’s _your_ job to learn quickly.”

You straighten up. You’re not even thinking about the implications of what he’s saying, simply reacting to the tolerance.

“Yes, sir. I won’t fail you, sir.” You pause, hesitating, and then you decide to explain yourself, at least a little bit. The truth worms its way through your lips, defiant. “…but I have to say this: I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to die. If I hadn’t done anything in that situation, even if I survived, I think I would have regretted that even more.”

A nod. For the briefest of moments, he looks pensive.

“…nobody ever wants their comrades to die, but it’ll happen to everyone, eventually.”

Captain Levi looks up, his eyes a little less opaque than usual, but no less hard. For a moment, a memory intrudes upon your conversation: an image of the stranger who’d lied to you, who’d taken your hand and told you to run. When he continues, his tone rings the same as in your memories. The heat in your face dissipates along with the guilt in your chest. You are safe under his guidance.

“You’re young, but you’ll have to learn to cope with that inevitable loss. You can’t let it cloud your judgment.”

His eyes are still beautiful, you catch yourself thinking, even when they’re cutting into you.

“…yes, sir. Thank you.”

You end up taking his words to heart, but not blindly. While you will eventually learn to handle loss, you will never learn to cut out regret.

* * *

**Erwin always asks for updates about the selection process. He’s always on the lookout for talent in the Corps.**

**“How is she doing? What do you think of her?”**

* * *

As time passes, Levi becomes pleased with the rookie he’s picked out from the 103rd.

You aren’t a full-fledged member of the Special Ops, but your training is coming along nicely. You don’t fuck around; you’re a professional on the field. You seem to have reflected on his lecture after your initial fuckup, which is almost a rite of passage for every Scout. He certainly remembers making a similar mistake his first time on the field: full of hesitations, spilling over with _what-ifs_ and _if-onl_ y _s_ afterward.

But unlike you, he’d opted for the other direction and chose to trust his family, and he remembers the loss to this day.

Still, he got over it, and you’re getting over it too. You don’t waste gas anymore. You commit to your decisions. And while he still catches you watching him from time to time, tracking his movements during particularly dangerous maneuvers, it no longer distracts you from your objectives.

You’re improving.

You come to work exceptionally well with Petra, who sings high praises about your performance in battle. After you get over the initial nerves common to the first couple of missions, Gunther and Eld also report that you’re growing quickly. Even _Oluo_ is starting to warm up to you. It becomes clear after a couple of months that you’ve cemented your position in the team.

The other squad leaders take notice of this as well. One by one, they introduce themselves to this new soldier in their ranks.

“I met your rookie the other day.”

Levi glances up at Mike, who is likely peering at him from beneath that wild hair. While he trusts his own judgment, he knows that Mike can get absurdly keen readings on people. Maybe there’s something to be said about his freakish habit of sniffing newcomers, Levi thinks wryly.

“What was your impression?” Levi asks, genuinely curious.

“She has a good smell.”

“You sound like a creep.” His voice is dry. “Please don’t sniff my subordinates. I’m not helping you if they report you for harassment.”

Mike ignores him, just continues on as usual.

“Full of honest intentions and loyalty. She’ll be a good soldier.”

“Forget interviews and character assessments.” Levi’s mouth quirks. “Your nose is all we need to screen candidates.”

As always, Mike moves swiftly past his jabs.

”…I’d be worried if I were you.”

“Oh?”

Another nod. This time, Levi can see his eyes. And he understands the look.

“She seems like someone who’s likely to become a casualty.”

 _Fuck this._ “I didn’t know that nose of yours could predict the future too,” he remarks, this time with more of an edge to his voice. “We don’t need Erwin’s strategies. You should just sniff out intel for him.”

Mike shakes his head.

“It’s not my nose telling me that. It’s what I know about her.” He looks at him, eyes connecting. “A loyal soldier who shows no hesitation on the battlefield—she’s the type that’s most likely to end up a casualty.”

Levi goes quiet. There aren’t many Survey Corps members who have lasted as long as the both of them, and he knows that Mike must be as equally haunted by it as himself. But their comrades’ deaths do not weigh Levi down; he cannot have the luxury of grief. He must forge his path forward, and he will do so by throwing himself into the present, into decisions he will not regret.

And he will not regret taking you on.

“Tch.”

His eyes narrow.

“She won’t die—not if I have anything to say about it.”

* * *

**A finger runs along his upper arm. A smile touches the skin of his cheek.**

**“When did you start to warm up to me?”**

* * *

Eld and Gunther are steady drinkers, probably with tolerances to rival Levi’s. They’re vets, after all—you don’t last this long in the military without learning how to drink like a fish. But Petra and Oluo are a couple of years fresher, and they quickly redden in the face.

You aren’t a lot better off.

“ _Ugh!”_ You grimace every time you take a swig. “This is so bitter!”

Levi raises his own mug.

“Cheers.” His voice is exceptionally dry, even for him. “It’s the Survey Corps’ best.”

You make a face, but clink glasses anyway. More beer goes down your throat, and another whine leaves it. “No wonder you usually drink tea instead.”

Eld and Gunther lean over, clicking tongues. “Listen up, rookie,” Gunther says, the utmost gravity in his voice. “If you’re going to be part of Squad Levi, you’ve got to learn to swing a mug.”

“And the captain doesn’t drink tea because he hates beer,” Petra adds in, voice slightly slurred. “It’s because he’s so straitlaced. He doesn’t like to party.”

Levi’s expression doesn’t crack. She’s not _wrong,_ after all.

“That’s right. Consider yourselves lucky that I’m out with all of you.”

Oluo leans in, barking at you in that irritating way of his. “Look at you, making the captain go out of his way to humour you! Tch! We wouldn’t be wasting our time drinking if we didn’t have to babysit you!”

“Yeah, _right._ You drink all the time, whenever you’re not pretending to drink tea,” Petra kicks back without missing a beat. “You’re practically an alcoholic.”

The two of you tag team it, with you performing a beautiful assist.

“I mean, you can leave if you want.” Your voice is innocent. “None of us mind. _Please,_ feel free to go.”

Levi snorts. Watching the two of you take the piss out of Oluo is quickly becoming his favourite pastime. Apparently, it comes as naturally to you as killing Titans.

But for all your ridicule of Oluo, Levi notices that at the end of every drinking session, you’re as concerned about him as everyone else. Petra is always the first to cave, holding her mouth as you help her back to her quarters. Incredibly, you come back for the rest of them, somehow working through your own alcohol-fueled daze.

“You good?” you slur at Eld and Gunther. They say yes blearily, and that leaves you rounding on Oluo. “Okay. I know for a fact that you’re _not_ good. Get your ass to bed.” Unfailingly, Oluo groans, forehead on the table, and unfailingly, you grab him by the scruff of his collar and force him out of his seat. “Come on! Let’s go! And don’t die in your sleep, okay? Petra would never forgive you.”

And after Oluo’s staggering away, you always round on Levi when everyone else is gone. Levi, somewhat infamously, has the constitution of an ox, and he never feels anything more than a slight buzz when you do this. Still, you check in on him, and while it is incredibly silly, he has to admit that he doesn’t mind it.

“What about you, Captain?”

His voice is flat, but he deigns to humour you every time.

“What about me?”

You wave at him, and at the seven empty mugs in front of him.

“You good?”

“Obviously.” He’s brisk when he stands up, watching you carefully the whole time. You teeter slightly on your feet, and he doesn’t miss it. “But you’re clearly not. Get your lightweight ass to bed. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir!” You giggle a bit. As always, you turn around, and he feels satisfied watching you go. A headache crawls into his skull as you leave, the alcohol pounding in his head. Maybe you’d been right to check on him this time, he thinks wryly. It’s time to call it a night.

He turns to the mess on the table, ready to clean everything up—

But you yell.

“ _Ugh!_ Let go of me!”

It’s your voice. He whirls around, hawk-eyed. _No one fucks with his team_ , especially not with his rookie. Levi’s eyes narrow instinctively when he sees some grimy brat grabbing at your arm with one hand, his other swatting at your lower back.

“Come on! You’re highest rated on the list… after Ral, I mean.” The offending soldier smirks, clearly shitfaced. “How ‘bout I take you back to my barracks and show you a good time? We could die any day, you know…”

 _Disgraceful._ Levi feels nothing but contempt in this moment, but stops himself from intervening. You’re a professional, he reminds himself. Catcalling in the military is common. You can probably handle it.

But your gaze is unfocused… how much did you drink? His hackles rise when he sees you sway on your feet…

“You…”

_Come on, rookie. Get it together._

You look up at the soldier.

And then you pull a _lightning fast_ maneuver, and when you’ve got the brat stumbling, his hands behind his back and your arm pressed up against his Adam’s apple, Levi feels a sigh escaping his mouth.

But he stiffens again when he hears you.

“You’re _revolting._ ”

And Levi will never forget the tone of your voice here: quiet, heavy with contempt. He’s never heard this voice on you before, ringing with disgust, and he hasn’t seen this expression on your face in a long time, not since your first interview with him. You’d sat across from him and recounted, in the most polite terms possible, the disgraceful behaviour of the soldiers running the refugee camps. He knows the look. He knows the voice, too, even if he’s never heard it from your lips. He’s heard it leaving his own. He’d heard it often in the Underground as well, this desperate and shell-shocked response to pain.

His mouth twists.

It’s time to intervene.

* * *

**“Then? _That_ night? _Why_?” You frown, looking away from his eyes to glance at your forearm. You still his remember strange touch from that night. “If anything, you just seemed upset…”**

**He rolls his eyes.**

**“I was talking about seeing you warm up to the team. Obviously, I didn’t enjoy seeing you getting manhandled by that shitstain of a soldier.”**

**Your hand brushes the hair out of his eyes.**

**“I know you didn’t.”**

* * *

You hate this boy for ruining your night. It had been going so well: Eld, Gunther, and even the captain were beginning to warm up to you. Even _Oluo_ had taken your joking in stride. Petra had been sunny to you as always, giving you brilliant smiles all the way through her drunken haze. The whole night has left you feeling sunny and warm, like you’re finally in a better place, with people whom you can call comrades.

But the minute this soldier lays hands on you, fingers rough and almost abusive, the memories of a colder and lonelier time resurface. Even as you keep him in a chokehold, you are revolted by the press of his body against yours. He’s just like the Garrison soldiers. _Hey, pretty thing, would you like a meal?_ It’s infuriating, hearing about your rating among the 103rd boys. It’s disgusting, knowing that they’re ranking your friend. It’s like being cattle. It’s like being a hungry mouth.

A voice breaks your fugue state, pulls you back to the mess hall. Captain Levi’s hand is steady on your shoulder.

“Hey, rookie.”

You glance back, surprised.

“Let go of that brat.”

You frown, uncomprehending.

“But…”

“Don’t worry. I know his name. He’ll be punished appropriately.” He physically tugs at your hands, and they fall away from the trapped body. Captain Levi’s actions are as much of a command as any other, and you loyally follow it. You’ve resolved to trust him, because you know that he is a good man, and that beneath the prickly veneer, he has everyone’s best interests at heart.

“…and anyway, I don’t want you getting your hands dirty with this filth,” he finishes, as if echoing your judgment.

Hesitantly, you step away from the offending boy. He stumbles off, mollified. But this alone does not satisfy your captain, and he attempts to herd you to your quarters.

“Tch. I ordered you to get to bed, didn’t I?”

Levi grabs your arm, intent on moving you along, but it _stings,_ and it’s repulsiveto have this hand tracing the imprint of that revolting boy, of all those Garrisoner men.

It’s frightening, even if it’s the hand of someone you now almost unconditionally trust.

The both of you pause.

“…he hurt you,” Levi realizes.

“…just a bit,” you say faintly.

“Well, come on, then. Show me.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” He rolls his eyes. “I need to know when my team is injured. Could fuck up our performance on missions if I don’t account for it.”

“I’ve survived Titans,” you shoot back, nearly grumbling. “I’m sure I’ll be fine sleeping on this.”

What you are saying is logical. Surely, Captain Levi knows this too. Still, the twist of his mouth does not relax, and the knot in his brow does not detangle. He stands his ground, and it is so irrational that you must wonder at his reasoning.

You end up with a hunch. As he beckons you along, his face is possessed by a look that is vaguely familiar. You’ve seen it in the refugee camps: on the faces of mothers fretting over crying babies, on children trying to take care of their sick parents, on a grandfather who starved himself to feed his grandchild and his friends.

You allow yourself to be moved by your captain, who brings you to a first aid kit. You allow it because you owe it to him. You allow it because you hate this expression on him.

Captain Levi crosses his arms, looks at you expectantly.

“Come on, then. Roll up your sleeve.”

You hesitate.

“But…”

“That’s an order.”

* * *

**“You seemed really…” You struggle to find the right word. “…off?”**

**Silence is Levi’s most used crutch, and he is filled with it right now.**

**“…you can tell me what was going through your mind, you know.” Your voice is soft. “I’ll listen.”**

* * *

You’d never turn down an order from him, so Levi isn’t surprised when acquiesce and tug up at your sleeve. The marks on your skin make him pause: discolouration on your forearm, blood drifting subcutaneously. A sickness crawls beneath his own skin, concentrating at his throat.

He’s just had too much to drink, he tells himself. That’s all this nausea is.

Then, for a moment, he’s drifting… There’s a pale arm in front of him, slender fingers running over her bruises. The candle light dances across the marks, and the vase in the corner—their most expensive possession—is shattered on the floor. Mother’s face is wet, and there’s a redness blossoming on her inner thigh. He hates the MP that’s torn through their little home. He’s never been able to wrap his mind around the violence of the brothel, though this will be the event that forces him to learn.

“…sir?”

Reality swims before Levi, your voice reeling him in. The memory dissolves.

“…really, sir. It’s fine. Just some bruising.”

You’re right, he thinks hazily. It’s just some bruising.

Levi finds himself grabbing your wrist, staring intently. His fingers are pale against the dark spots, tugged along by some long-forgotten habit. Some part of him thinks, his touch is so gentle that it can’t possibly be his own. He’s not balanced enough to do this anymore, not for anyone outside a battlefield, not for someone who’s been hurt like _this._ Your skin is so warm that this must all be in his head.

“Sir?”

Levi pulls away, remembering himself.

Yeah, he’s not drinking again for a fucking _while_.

“…you’re right. There’s no serious damage. You can return to your quarters.”

Levi is careful to keep his voice level. He doesn’t want to let you in on the confusion; he just needs to see you get to your room. You’re the most vulnerable member of his team.

It’s his job to care for you. That’s all this is.

And when your door closes after you, he pushes the moment out of his mind. It was a fluke, he tells himself. Nothing special. He will move on, focus on other things. There is work to be done, Titans waiting to be killed.

His fingers curl at his side, painfully empty, and he does his best to ignore it.

* * *

**Eren’s voice is quiet.**

**“You miss her a lot, don’t you?”**

* * *

It’s a slow day in the barracks. The paperwork is winding down in preparation for the approaching Harvest Festival, a holiday that leads most of the soldiers back home to their families. All of your chores are finished, and you and Petra are spending time in her room, basking in the cool autumn breeze drifting in through the window. Petra’s made the both of you tea. The cup is warm in your hands, steaming heartily. It feels like home. It’s easy to talk freely to her like this, about war and about family and everything in between.

“…Captain Levi’s a bit of mystery, huh?” you muse.

“He is,” Petra agrees. “No one really knows about his past, besides the rumours that he’s from the Underground. He’s not the type of share freely, either.”

You nod. You’ve heard about the Underground, about the shambles and the crime and the destitution. Maybe it has something to do with his strange behaviour some months ago, the night he refused to let go of the bruises on your arms. His expression had looked familiar to you, reminding you of the camps in Trost. Maybe the Underground hadn’t been so different from that hellhole.

But most likely, you’re just projecting. He’s your boss and your comrade, but you don’t really know him at all.

“He’s too professional to talk about that kind of thing, huh?” you observe. And then, playfully, you add, “He’s nothing like you. You’ll be the least intimidating squad leader _ever._ ”

Petra laughs. Putting down the tea, she lets herself fall onto her bed, and the springs bounce beneath your legs. She smiles, and it’s lovely seeing her so happy.

“Do you think I’ll manage it? Sometimes it feels like a dream.” The brown of her eyes soften. “My dad doesn’t approve, I think. He says I’m too devoted to my career, that I’m missing out on my youth. But there’s nothing else I want to do so badly…”

“You can do it,” you say immediately. It is the truth: you _know_ her passion will get there, you _know_ she will be an inspiration to her followers. If the captain will allow it, you will never stop following him, but if he ever wants you off his team, you know that you will follow Petra instead.

She practically glows at your words.

“Thank you!” She can’t stop grinning, even when she chooses to turn the attention to you. “What about you, though?”

You blink.

“What about me?”

“What do you want to do? What do people back home say about it?” She rolls onto her belly, her chin propped up by her hands. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

A silence passes. It’s true: you have not divulged your intentions or your past to many people, not even Elias or Lottie. Only Eren, Mikasa, and Armin understand your thought process, and it’s vaguely at best. Hell is not something you want to relive, nor is it something you want to inflict on other survivors. You have mourned it, and now you want to move on.

But Petra is different from the others. She’s not a fellow refugee, and she’s not a child for which you must care. She’s your _comrade._ She wants to know you, and you suppose you must return the courtesy of her opening up.

“I don’t have a long-term goal in mind. I just want to follow Captain Levi,” you admit. “I don’t really want to become a squad leader, because I’m happy enough to support him.”

Petra nods.

“I understand that. He _is_ a great man… even if he’s so sour all the time.”

You laugh.

“I know he’s sort of your role model, but you actually couldn’t be any more different from him in some ways… And thank God for that. I don’t think I could stand another person yelling at me about the laundry.”

Petra breaks out in giggles, temporarily distracted as she recounts her most mortifying experience under his mentorship. But eventually, she asks about you again.

“What does your family say about your goals, though? Does your father approve, or is he more like mine?”

“…I don’t have anyone back home,” you confess. “I’m from Wall Maria. None of my family survived it when…"

Petra’s lips fall. Her eyes widen.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” You wave a hand, and she falls silent. “I know you meant well.”

Her eyes linger on the ceiling, thoughtful.

“If you don’t mind me asking… is that why you joined the Corps?”

“Yeah.” You go a little red at your next confession, remembering Oluo’s derision when you’d first joined the Special Ops. _Are you part of his fanclub?_ But it feels natural to tell Petra about this, because your feelings aren’t romantic, and she’ll understand that. It’s deeper than a crush, you think. It is a debt, priceless and inexplicable. “It’s why I wanted to join this squad, too. I definitely would have died back then if the captain hadn’t saved me.”

Surprise flickers into her gaze. “He was there?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes soften. She looks up at you, voice a whisper when she asks:

“What happened on that day?”

And you have never told anyone _any_ of this, but you tell Petra _everything._ You tell her about the way the roof of your house had already caved in by the time you’d gotten home, your lungs burning and eyes stinging. You tell her about your mother pulling you away from the front door, screaming that your father and siblings were now just bodies beneath the rubble. You tell Petra about the Titan who’d picked up your mother, about how he’d grinned down at the lot of you as he opened his mouth.

You tell her about the stranger who told you to run, about the Wings of Freedom on his back. You tell her about joining the military, about glimpsing him in the crowd for the first time, relieved that he had survived. You tell her about wanting to know him, to thank him, to follow his lead.

She is quiet for a long time.

And then:

“…you should tell him.”

You look away.

“I want to. I just haven’t found the right opportunity… I don’t want to waste his time with things that don’t matter, you know?”

Her fingers tug at your sleeve. When you glance at Petra, she’s smiling at you.

“Any time is the right time for this. These words will matter to him. Trust me.”

Her hand brushes against your forearm. The bruises have faded, and it doesn’t hurt at all. A little tickle remains where his fingers brushed you.

“…yeah, you’re right.”

* * *

**Erwin’s voice is sombre.**

**“It’s always hard, but it’s a lesson we need to teach them.”**

* * *

Levi hates pointless death, and he loathes it when his subordinates must experience it for the first time. It is painful to teach his soldiers to swallow grief whole on the battlefield, to ignore the pain and carry out the mission, but it is a rite of passage.

It is especially important that members of _his_ team know this, because they are the best of the best, and they will see many of their comrades fall before they do. And he will train you to be the best of the best, and that includes the skill of moving on.

The first time you see a comrade die in his arms, you are quiet. His eyes are curious on your form: you aren’t crying, the way that Petra did the first time, nor are you angry, the way that Oluo was. You aren’t getting up. You aren’t speaking. You’re just on your knees, staring at the still boy, completely blank.

It’s denial.

Levi puts a hand on your shoulder. He keeps his voice steady, because he is Humanity’s Strongest, and he must set an example for you and all the others, the way that Erwin and Kenny set examples for him.

“You can’t let it stop you,” he advises you. “You have to keep fighting.”

“Right now?” you whisper. Suddenly, he is reminded of how _young_ you are, how hard this must be. Something twinges in his chest, but he does his best to trap it in his ribs.

“Yes.” His voice is hard. “Especially now. You can’t let your regret cloud your present judgment. If you can manage it, don’t regret at all. It’ll only dull your decisions in the future.”

You do not respond. He offers you a hand, eyes softening.

“Can you walk?”

At the words, you stir. When you finally look up at him, eyes focusing, Levi feels a knot unraveling in his chest.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The last time he held your hand was several months ago, gently inspecting the bruises on your arms. This moment is entirely different. This time, your fingers are desperate around his, your hands hot and slick with blood. He helps you to your feet, his grip solid and unyielding. There is no room for fragility here. He must stay strong for you and all the others.

You pause before leaving the scene. He hears you whispering to the body, “I’m so sorry, Elias.”

* * *

**You still remember how she stared up at you from her spot on the bed, her hair splayed out across the mattress, coloured like autumn leaves.**

**You whisper, “It never would have happened without you, hm?”**

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me?”

Petra peers at you, not even bothering to hide her concern. You’ve tried your best to keep your grief private, but she’s good at reading people. She’s probably noticed it all: the bags beneath your eyes, the distant stare, the slimming of your cheeks. You keep dreaming about Elias’ half-eaten torso, about a boy from Wall Maria who could not escape Hell after all.

She’s worried about leaving you like this.

“My family would be happy to have you over,” she insists. “We make a _ton_ of food for the Harvest Festival, and we always have leftovers… my mom would love it if you came over.”

You smile at her, hoping that it’s not weak.

“Thank you, Petra… but I think it’ll be best if I stay in the barracks when the Festival rolls around.” You look out the window, thinking. Petra is kind to you, but you’ll be a stranger to her family, and they won’t be able to help your grief. But your time in the camps have taught you that there _are_ people who can help, and that you can help them too. “I have plans,” you add faintly.

She seems unconvinced.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. There are a few kids in the 104th I want to visit. They’re from Shiganshina, and I took care of them when we were in the refugee camps together.” You lean back, the numbness ebbing away a little bit when you think about them. “They don’t have any family either, so I wanted to do some cooking and have our own dinner together.”

“Oh!” Petra smiles, looking relieved. “I’m glad. I just didn’t want you to spend the Harvest Festival alone here.”

“Thanks for worrying about me.” You smile again, and this time it doesn’t feel as forced. “I guess you’re right, though—I’ll be alone. I’ll have the Special Ops barracks all to myself, huh?”

“Almost. The captain usually stays here during holidays too, I think.”

At this, a thought occurs to you. _You should tell him,_ you remember Petra saying. _These words will matter to him._

Well, you’ll both be on holiday, and it will be a day to meditate on thankfulness. This is your best chance, you suppose.

* * *

**You roll onto your side, studying Levi carefully. Looking back on it, you don’t remember why the special treatment started, the reason as to why he’d carved out a space for you at his side.**

 **But you _do_ remember _when_ it started.**

**“Remember that night before the Harvest Festival? Why did you ask me to stay?”**

* * *

Levi is in his office with you, staring at your impeccable salute, your earnest words ringing in his ears. But he is also elsewhere: four years in the past, in a town that has been abandoned by mankind.

Levi remembers that day in Wall Maria, soaring above a town in shambles. He remembers it as the rapid-fire succession of hellish imagery, captured from a bird’s eye view. Looking down, he’d seen: the bodies of Garrison soldiers and civilians alike; Titans smiling at trembling, broken flesh; refugees swimming desperately in the channel, giants picking them out from the river like apples at a carnival. Levi had been drenched in blood that day, steaming and filthy and fighting until all his blades ran dull.

Despite his efforts, so many people had died.

In his recollections, the ghosts all blend together: the soldiers grabbed by their wires; the girls grabbed by their hair; the boys picked up by their necks. They’ve all become one.

Still, there had been something _so_ unsettling about seeing a girl crying over her mother’s corpse that he remembers it amidst all the carnage. He’s known from a very young age what that’s like: to stare at your dead mother and not know how to move, frozen by denial, trapped by grief.

It’s why he’d known what to say.

It’s why he’d known to lie.

_I’ll do everything I can to help her._

_Can you run for me?_

Levi does not remember the girl’s face, but he remembers the lie. He has never shared this story with anyone else, so it is unmistakable: _you_ arethe girl he saved that day. You’re her, and you’ve forgiven him for lying, and you’ve moved on from your mother’s body, and you’ve moved on because of him.You’re talking, eating, laughing, and fighting _because of him._

Plenty of soldiers have sung him praises for being Humanity’s Strongest, have thanked him for his valour and his violence, but this is different. It’s always been easy for him to kill, but the people he manages to save are few and far between. And they always slip out of his hands, sooner or later.

For a moment, he finds himself grasping at words.

“…you don’t have to thank me. It was the least I could do.”

“It was the _most_ you could do.” Your eyes are soft, and despite the terrible, shared memory, there’s a smile kissing your lips. “Nobody else stopped to help me—not my neighbours, not my friends, not the Garrison soldiers. But _you_ did. And now I’m here.”

He finds his eyes mirroring yours.

“I’m glad.”

You nod, satisfied. Confession over, propriety sets in once again.

“Well, then… I’ll give you some peace. Thank you for listening to me, sir.”

But as you turn around to leave, something occurs to Levi. His team’s papers are already out on his desk, details that he must review and update by protocol before and after every expedition. He grabs them quickly, hones in on the profile you filled out for the military when you joined nearly five years ago.

**_Please name your next of kin:_ **

****

****

It’s blank.

This is why you’re staying in the barracks tomorrow, he realises. This is why you aren’t going home.

“Wait.”

You pause, eyes curious when you glance back.

“Sir?”

Right then, he makes a decision.

“I’m spending the day here tomorrow as well.” He keeps his expression neutral, but he doesn’t remember the last time his voice has sounded this soft. “I had plans to organize the Survey Corps’ records. It’s a disaster, and I could use a hand.”

For all his good intentions, the offer coming out of his mouth is shittier than intended. His lips thin. He’s always been shit at this.

But despite his wording, you seem to understand him.

“I’d love to help out. I’ll see you tomorrow at 0800? I know you like to get an early start on your cleaning.”

He feels a pull at his lips.

“I do. I’ll see you then, rookie.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before you leave, you pause at the threshold. There’s your smile again. He catches himself thinking that he should make you smile more.

“…thank you, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry that there's not much romance yet. Unfortunately, I had to establish some personal worldview perspectives first because they end up being really important to the relationship later- hopefully it wasn't too much of a slog to get through! 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of the chapter! :) 
> 
> **World-building note:** SnK never really goes into details about holidays, but it’s a good bet that they’d have some sort of harvest festival because they have an agrarian society, and harvest festivals occur cross-culturally in real life agrarian societies (e.g. America, Germany, China, Korea, etc. as Thanksgiving or Mid-Autumn Festivals).
> 
> **Characterization notes:**  
> 
> 
> * Petra’s characterization is based on the manga, where her father emphasized her excitement over her career (as opposed to the anime, where he basically only focused on her marriage timeline)   
> 
> * I understand that Levi’s characterization in one of the scenes here might require a suspension of belief, but it’s based on what I think is a reasonable extension of the psychological consequences of Levi’s childhood. I hope it’s understandable and that it wasn’t too jarring for people! 


	3. The First Crossing: Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so much_ to people who have liked and commented on this fic! The comments on the previous chapter were so encouraging and really helped me get through writing this installment! 
> 
> And as always, thank you to gr_ywaren for being an incredible beta! This chapter would not have seen the light of day without her!

* * *

**“Why did you start to treat me so differently?”**

* * *

Levi’s always known that you’ve been through some sort of hell, that you likely have hang-ups about your past. _He_ certainly did at your age. He could see it in your face from day one, and especially in your eyes during that night several months ago, after that piece of shit had grabbed you and left his dirty imprints on your skin.

But even so, the details change everything. You don’t save a helpless kid and then leave them to fend for themselves. You just _don’t_. He didn’t do that to Isabel, and Kenny didn’t do it to him—and Kenny had been an _asshole._ For all his flaws, he’d taken Levi in and protected him for at least a little bit.

This will become a mantra in your conversations: it’s his job to teach you, to train you, to look out for you. He will never say it aloud, but he doesn’t just mean that it’s his duty as your superior. It goes beyond that. He can’t leave you alone, some waif he saved years ago, who’s loyally followed him all the way from Wall Maria. He can’t abandon you when you might have no one else.

It would be a cruel thing to do.

He knows, because it was a cruel thing done to him.

* * *

**“Cleaning up with you was so nice that day.”**

**He snorts.**

**“That’s the first time someone’s said that about cleaning with me.”**

* * *

When the captain shows up at 0800 with a white scarf around his mouth and a little kerchief on his head, it takes everything in you not to laugh.

“Are you sure that’s not overkill, sir?”

“You haven’t seen the state of these records,” he says flatly. “There’s a lot of dust here. I have another set of cleaning gear in case you wanted some, but please be my guest if you want to poison yourself with this shitty air.”

You catch the implication: your captain is looking out for you. The thought motivates you to tie the cloth around your lower face.

After dusting off every single shelf and scrubbing every surface of the room, he divvies up the work of organizing the records. You frown as you bend over the faded ink, trying to decipher the handwriting of various squad leaders over the years. For some time, the two of you work in silence, focusing on your papers…

But inevitably, you glance over at the captain. You notice something strange, that his pile of organized papers is much shorter than yours. Tracking the movements of his eyes, you come to a startling realization:

The captain is _incredibly_ slow at reading.

You wrestle with this revelation. Should you offer to help him? Would that just embarrass him? It’s hard watching him struggle with such a small task, and even harder to comprehend that this would be an issue at all. All the little rumours floating around about his background come back to you, and you suppose that the Underground would not have been a place of particularly good education. Supposedly, the captain hadn’t been a standard recruit to the Corps either, so he might not have gone through the meat grinder of the theoretical course in the Training Corps.

While you debate the next move, Levi speaks, not even looking up at you.

“Is there a problem?”

“What?”

“You’re gawking.” He glances up at you. “Either something’s on your mind or something’s wrong with my face. Spit it out.”

“N-nothing’s wrong with your face, sir!” you say, aghast. “I think it’s quite nice!”

“…”

You try not to groan, to make it anymore tense. It isn’t a lie, of course. Despite the permanent scowl on his face, you’ve always found Captain Levi rather attractive, which is an opinion that always thoroughly confuses Petra. Still, he’s your captain and it’s important to keep things professional. You’ve never meant to tell him this.

You clear your throat. “…um, I mean, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about different ways to split up the work.”

Thankfully, Captain Levi moves on gracefully. “Oh? What approach do you think is best?”

“Well, neither of us have gotten to the windows. Maybe you can focus on that, and I’ll take care of the records? You’re much better with dirt and grime than I am.”

“It’s true,” he agrees. “You’re shit at cleaning. And I’m shit at sorting through these. You’re faster than me.” His eyes narrow, and he looks thoroughly annoyed now. It’s fascinating. This is an expression you’ve seen on the captain on many times, but you’ve never seen it directed at himself. You wonder if you’ve touched on a nerve, if even this indomitable soldier has insecurities.

But he brushes past the moment, looks at you with his usual expression. He’s perfectly in control of himself again.

“Well, let’s switch, then.”

You nod.

“Yes, sir.“

* * *

**“Pass the onion?”**

**Levi hands it over to you, not looking up from the cutting board.**

**“Remember what I taught you,” he mutters. “You better not cry trying to cut that shit.”**

* * *

After the two of you finish up with the records, you decide to head to the market together. It isn’t a planned trip, but the captain wants to get some tea anyway.

“I’m making dinner for some kids in the Training Corps,” you explain when he asks why you’re picking up a "metric shitton” of food. “They’re from Wall Maria… they don’t have parents, so I’ve been keeping an eye on them for years.” You pause, wondering how Eren’s getting on, if he’s been stressing out Armin and Mikasa too much lately.

You ramble on, because the captain’s staying quiet.

“I’ve been growing these herbs in my room… they’re native to Wall Maria, and rare ever since we abandoned Shigawa.” Smiling, you add, “There’s this one kid, Eren—his mother used to make this _incredible_ dish, but you need this herb for it… I bet he hasn’t tasted it in years, so I’m excited to make it for him.“ Your smile weakens as you finish the thought. ”…it’s been especially hard for him, losing his mother, so I really wanted to do this for him…”

Suddenly, you realize that Levi hasn’t spoken in a long time. You glance at him, curious.

“…it’s hard for a lot of people, losing their mothers,” he eventually says. And then, after another pause: “It’s nice that you’re looking out for those kids.”

Although his tone is neutral, you wonder if there’s more to the words.

_He’s also alone today,_ you think. _He’s got no one to visit._ Your gaze softens, lingering on his form.

“Do you want to join us for dinner, sir?”

He stares at you, like he’s misheard you.

“What?”

“Well, I mean…" Suddenly, you’re self-conscious. “You must not want to spend your Harvest Festival with a bunch of kids, but…”

“I don’t. And I’ve got dinner plans with Shitty Glasses and Eyebrows.”

"Oh.” You look down. To your side, you think you see him watching you.

“…but thanks.”

It’s enough for you to straighten up again.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

He ends up walking you back to the barracks, a comfortable silence settling over the both of you. For whatever reason, when you return home, he opts to accompany you to the kitchens. When he goes on about how he needs to make himself a tea, and that he should make sure that you don’t start a fire anyway, you find yourself smiling widely. You’d never expected this level of camaraderie with your captain, and you make no secret of enjoying it.

While you’re washing vegetables and glancing back, you notice that his gaze is lingering on you, his own devoid of the usual, sour lines. Maybe he’s enjoying himself too.

When the vegetables are laid out in front of you, sitting between two cutting boards, you pause. You haven’t properly cooked since your days living in your childhood home, helping your mother out in the kitchen. You wonder if you will remember how.

It is when you peel the onions that Levi’s eyes drop from your expression to your hands. His eyebrows twitch, and he goes quiet. Self-consciously, you pay special attention to your knife in your hands. Surely, this can’t be harder than cutting down Titans on the field?

Levi doesn’t even let you try.

“Tch. What are you doing? You’re going to slice off a hand if you cut like that. Give that here.”

You are skeptical at first, watching him wash his hands and roll up his sleeves. Cooking is such a mundane task that it is hard to believe that Humanity’s Strongest would concern himself with it.

All the disbelief fades when he gets to work.

His knife moves expertly through the squash, the celery, the potatoes. His hands possess the same precision that they do on the battlefield, and the odd thought occurs to you that the skills might be transferable. _That’s ridiculous._ You try not to smile, but he catches the suppressed laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sir.”

He lifts a brow, unamused.

“Don’t lie to me.”

_Ah._ Captain Levi is remarkably talented at reading people. Noting this, you smile sheepishly. “Nothing. Just wondering if your battle dexterity applies to cooking. I’ve never seen anyone chop onions so fast!”

His mouth twists.

“You might not be wrong. It’s all just knife work,” he remarks.

“I guess.” You hum, watching the subtle flex of his arms. “But still… I didn’t think you’d know how to cook, Captain.”

“I had to learn,” he divulges. “The man who raised me was a shit cook. I had to keep myself alive somehow.”

“Ah… that makes sense.” You notice his wording: _the man who raised me._ Not “father”. And there’s no mention of a mother. His expression does not hint at any sort of discomfort, so you continue his unspoken line of thought. “I never really had to figure it out after my mother passed… the refugee camps didn’t have food that we could exactly cook.” You look down, eyebrows knotting at the memory of stale bread and cheese. The fresh vegetables beneath your fingers are a world apart from those rations. You wish that you’d been able to give this to the kids at that time. You wish that you’d been able to cook for them. “Then I joined the military, and it was only mess hall food for me after that.”

His voice is dry. “That’s a pity. They feed the cadets garbage.”

You laugh. “My standards were low after the camps!” His hands pause with the knife so that he can dial on the gas. _Click,_ a spark,and suddenly a flame is going beneath the water. He gives you an instruction, and you acquiesce.

“Wow! Homemade soup by Humanity’s Strongest.” You giggle as you pick your knife back up. It’s time for the carrots. “I bet this’ll be _way_ better than mess hall food.”

His mouth twists, and it looks suspiciously close to a smile.

“I’m not bad,” he admits. “Resourceful, at least. It was the same for me in the Underground—shit ingredients, not a lot of food to go around.”

A pause. Captain Levi’s never divulged his past to anyone, not even his own team. It’s confidential between him and the commander. You aren’t sure why you’re suddenly privy to his past, listening to all these layers being peeled away, but you want to hear more. You want to know more and more, you think. You want to know as much about him as possible, push the limits of what he will allow.

You forget yourself at these thoughts, distracted. But the captain is still watching you out of the corner of his eye, and he puts down his own knife.

“Tch. You’re still not cutting right.”

The unthinkable happens.

A warmth envelopes the back of your hand. It is his own, and his fingers ply at yours, moving them into the correct position. It’s a professional instruction, as though he is showing you the best way to use your blades on the field, but it’s enough to freeze your thoughts.

After they come back, you find your thoughts scrambling. You almost miss what he’s saying.

“…are you even listening? This is how you use a knife.” His expression sours. “I can’t have one of my soldiers cutting off their own fucking finger. Pay attention.”

“O-oh… yes. Thank you, sir.” Your voice is weak, transparent. You can’t believe this is happening, and you don’t know how to deal with the way your heart is pounding in your ears. You can only hope that the captain somehow hasn’t noticed your reaction.

You try to push away the strange warmth in your chest. These emotions are a waste of time, you think. You just admire him. You just owe him a debt. He is your mentor, and he is not interested in being anything else.

You don’t have feelings for him.

* * *

**“You’re a lot touchier than I expected,” you muse.**

**“I can stop,” he says flatly.**

**Your hand rests atop his. A little smile plays on your lips.**

**“Please don’t.”**

* * *

It is strange.

Ever since his childhood, Levi has had a strained relationship with human contact. His mother’s touch had been full of love of the gentlest sort, but he knows the hands of those men had done nothing but inflict pain onto her. And after Kenny had honed him into a weapon, Levi has done nothing but inflict pain unto other men with his own touch.

This lesson has been ingrained into him since youth: touch is an action coupled with pain, and the two are impossible to detangle. He’s never been able to imagine physical intimacy, not involving someone like himself. Numerous lingering, unrequited touches have always filled him with repulsion, the oily, leftover fingerprints more unsavoury than the stickiness of blood.

The warmest he can manage is holding the hands of dying comrades on the battlefield, of terrified victims in warzones.

But when he puts his hands over yours, it feels different.

It doesn’t feel bad.

It doesn’t feel dirty.

* * *

**“You didn’t have to do all that for me. You were my squad member, not my attendant. I’m not like that bald drunkard on Wall Rose.”**

**“…I don’t think it’s a good idea to refer to Commander Pixis that way…”**

* * *

After the Harvest Festival passes, there is a shift in your relationship.

You don’t know why the captain is looking out for you all of a sudden. He always treats the Special Ops team with a certain respect, but it becomes different with you. He invites you to sit with him after you make him tea. He allows you to make idle conversation with him. He orders you to ride just behind him during missions, making sure to point little tactical details out to you. You know it is his way of looking out for you, though you aren’t sure why you deserve such special attention.

Still, you try to return his kindness toward you, and it makes you realize just how little kindness he gets. You realize that he always sleeps in his chair, wakes up with a nasty kink in his neck. You realize that when he _does_ allow himself to sleep in bed, he somehow wakes up even _more_ fatigued. You come to realize that he wastes a lot of sunlight by spending the day inside, focusing on paperwork and studying new formations.

You come to realize that no one is looking after him.

There are some things for which you refuse to cross the line. Captain Levi is both a remarkable leader and a fully grown man, and you will not waste his time by chiding him for his sleeping habits. Still, you _do_ always drape a blanket over him whenever you catch him sleeping in his office. Whenever you’re cleaning out the barracks with the rest of the squad, you are extra thorough with his bedding, wondering if it will make him more likely to sleep in it.

You are also more than happy to try to help him get through his paperwork. The first time you sit down and dig into some of the forms, the captain eyes you like you’ve grown a second head.

“I won’t complain,” he says, “but you better not fuck it up.”

“I won’t!” You smile, bending over the documents. “I’ll be careful. I want to speed things along—not make them harder.” And you suspect that the help will be effective. You’ve picked out that he is not only a slow reader, but also a slow writer. There is nothing wrong with that, but it’s a shame that he’s missing out on so many daylight hours.

“Hm.” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the captain watching you carefully, likely weighing the benefits against the risks. “Well, it’ll help me get to my other work faster.”

“Actually,” you start carefully, “I was thinking that we could go outside after this…”

He lifts a brow. “We won’t have time to go to the market.”

“How about just a walk?”

Captain Levi looks outside, considering. He asks, “What point is there to that?’

You shrug.

“I just think you should get some sunlight every once in a while, sir.” You stop writing to glance up at him. The smile is genuine. “It’s good for you.”

There’s a long pause during which you wonder if you have embarrassed yourself in front of the captain again. Perhaps you have overstepped a boundary.

Eventually, though, he agrees to spend a short time outside with you.

Twenty minutes is still enough to make you beam.

* * *

**“How did you feel when I began to do all those things for you?”**

* * *

Ever since his mother’s passing, Levi’s largely taken care of himself. He _had_ to, after all. Kenny fed and clothed him for a little bit, but quickly forced him into independence. Every exchange between the two of them was driven by a lesson, something that was meant to help Levi survive on his own. The words still come back to him whenever he’s particularly tired: _you gotta learn to fend for yourself, kid. There’s no one you can trust as much as your own self._

The lessons ring true. Twenty years later, Levi still relies on himself for everything from his meals to his training. His comrades don’t concern themselves with his lifestyle, and why would they? Humanity’s Strongest can protect himself, is self-sufficient. He doesn’t need someone to check in on him. He doesn’t need someone to worry about him.

This is why the first time you knock at his door, bringing a tray of tea and leftovers, he doesn’t know how to react. Levi simply stares, asks, “What are you doing?” He doesn’t sound happy.

“You missed dinner,” you reply, and he doesn’t have to look at your face to know that you’re frowning. You clear the papers from his desk and set the tray before him. “I know you’re busy—your meeting with the commander ran overtime. I thought I’d make things easier for you and bring you dinner.” You glance outside, presumably at the darkness on the other side of the window glass. “…sorry for bringing it so late, though.”

Levi stares at the chicken in front of him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says simply. “I’ve skipped dinner before. It won’t kill me.”

“I know it won’t, but it’s still bad to skip meals.” Levi finds himself staring at the playful quirk of your lips. He should make you smile more, he catches himself thinking again. “Even Humanity’s Strongest needs to eat.”

No one’s ever said this to him before. There’s no witty reply, no joke lined up. He finds himself saying, “But I need to get this paperwork done.” It sounds stupid even to his own ears. 

“Oh. That’s no problem, sir.” You pick up a pen, drag the papers over. “I’ll do it instead. You can just focus on eating.”

“…fine then. Thank you, soldier.” Then, as an afterthought: “Remember not to fuck it up.”

“Of course, sir,” you chirp, not the least bit intimidated by him.

His stomach does a strange roll. He’s had hunger pangs before, especially in his childhood, but this feels different. He must be hungrier than he thought, Levi concludes.

The meat is tender, falls apart with the touch of his knife. As he leans over the dish, he notices a unique fragrance: the herbs from Shigawa that you grow in your room. When his lips tingle with spice, he suddenly realizes that nobody has cooked for him in years.

* * *

**Levi’s fingers ghost your temples, skimming over the gauze. From your place on the bed, you smile up at him.**

**“Doesn’t this bring back memories?**

* * *

The first time you fall ill, the Special Operations squad doesn’t know what to do.

You have to explain to them that you’ll be fine. Ever since that plague that burned through Wall Maria—the one for which Doctor Jaeger had treated you—you’ve just been particularly weak to illness. The cold working its way through the barracks is rough on you, runs a sweltering fever and a cough that feels like claws in your throat, but this is normal. It was like this when you got sick your first year in the Training Corps as well. It’ll pass. You’ll be fine.

Petra is convinced you might die.

“You don’t need to sit here, you know,” you mumble through the covers.

“Yes, I do.” She frowns, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. Her skin feels like ice, and you find yourself sighing in relief. “I wish they’d kept you in the medical wing for a bit longer… I just don’t feel okay leaving you alone.”

“Don’t worry.” You smile up at her, hoping that it’s reassuring. “It’s the same thing that Gunther had, and he’s fine.”

“How can you be sure? Gunther didn’t lose this much weight…” She bites her lip. There are dark circles beneath her eyes. Through the headache and nausea, you suddenly realize how much of a toll this is taking on her. You’re trying to work out a way to comfort her, to convince her to take a break, when a knock comes at the door.

“Come in,” Petra says, not even looking back at the visitor. When you catch sight of the person stepping through the threshold, you smile at her despite burning like a furnace.

“You gotta salute, Petra.”

“Huh?” She glances back, then pales immediately. The chair scrapes as she jumps out of her seat. “Oh— _sir!_ I didn’t realize it was you!”

As always, Captain Levi doesn’t seem to care much for formalities. He just nods at her. “At ease.”

“Yes, sir!”

He pauses, and from your position on the bed, you can see him studying her carefully. After a moment, he remarks, “You look like absolute shit—worse than our rookie, and you’re not even sick.”

Something comes out of your throat like a whine. Defensively, you say, “She’s been taking care of me, sir!” The words leave you coughing into your blankets, like a ton of nails have just been dragged through your vocal chords. He grimaces.

“You sound like you’re about to die. Stay quiet.”

“But—”

“ _That’s not staying quiet._ ”

You press your lips together.

“Good. Can’t have you losing your voice entirely.” Satisfied, he then rounds on Petra. “You can take a break. I can’t have _two_ of my squad members getting sick.”

She glances at you, and guilt gnaws at you when you catch all the lines in her face. “In all honesty, sir, I don’t know if she should be left alone. Her temperature hasn’t gone down at all since she was discharged.”

Something that sounds like porcelain and metal clatters as it’s set down on the nightstand beside you. A scent wafts toward you—chicken soup, you think, more fragrant than anything you ever get in the mess hall. His hands free, the captain jabs a thumb at you. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her and make sure that she doesn’t die.”

Petra stands, every movement slow, radiating reluctance. Once risen, she doesn’t move toward the door.

“It’ll be fine, Petra,” Levi repeats, surprisingly patient. “I know how to take care of a sick person, and you need to get some rest. You really _do_ look like hell.”

“…okay. Thank you, sir.”

When you hear her walk away, your door opening and closing, you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Thanks, sir,” you whisper, trying not to bring on another coughing fit. Even like this, the inside of your throat feels painfully raw against your breath. “I was getting worried about her…”

His lips thin. “You look pitiful right now. You’re not in a position to worry about anyone.”

If you were any fresher, you’d feel hurt, but since you know your captain, his reply just makes you want to laugh. All you can manage is a weak smile, though. “Well, thanks for worrying over her instead. Someone has to.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s my job to worry about my squad. Fucking messes, the lot of you.” Levi pulls the chair toward your bed, sits down. He looks down at you, and in your feverish state, you study his features quite unashamedly. He _is_ good-looking, you think defiantly, with a beautiful, sharp jawline and a captivating gaze. You’ve always loved that about him, his eyes and their intensity.

Yes—it doesn’t _matter_ that he’s short, or scowling most of the time. Petra has _no idea_ what she’s talking about.

If Levi cares at all that you’re staring, it doesn’t show. Instead, he just asks, “Can you sit up?” A pause. “No, you definitely can’t. Here—”

There’s a pair of hands on you, warm and steady. Levi handles your body carefully as he helps you up, touching you as though you’ll break. The world spins as you try to right yourself, and when you clutch your hammering head, his hand is firm on your shoulder. Levi’s voice is low in your ear.

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

You moan.

“I’m going to puke. I feel like I’m going to die.”

“If you throw up on me, you _will._ ” You can _hear_ the scowl in his voice. You can also hear it dissolving when he asks, “…do you think you can keep any food down?”

You glance at the nightstand, where there’s a tray with a bowl for soup, peeled and sliced apples, a glass of water.

“I don’t know.”

“Try.” A hand touches your arm, fingers circling your thinning wrist. “You’re wasting away. If you don’t eat, you really _will_ die. It’ll be the hunger that gets you in the end, not the illness. I’ve seen it happen.”

Even through your vertigo, the words make you pause. You study the captain again, this time in an attempt to unravel his features. Levi’s eyes are downcast, fixed upon the skin of your forearm. You know that you should stop projecting your own ghosts onto him, but you once again find yourself thinking that he must be haunted by something—something bruised, with wasting flesh.

You still hate this expression on your captain, so you agree to eat. He holds the bowl up in front of you, steadying it as you reach for the spoon. Everything has tasted like sand these past few days, and it’s not any different now. Something in your stomach crawls when the broth touches your tongue. Still, you swallow through your grimace, managing not to gag.

“Sorry if it tastes like shit,” Levi says, although the toneless quality of his voice doesn’t suggest any real remorse. “Decided to play it safe and make it as bland as possible. Looks like you might puke it back up anyway, though.”

“I can’t, sir. You’ll kill me if I do, remember?” Your spoon inches back toward the bowl as you consider his words, bewildered at his surprisingly decent bedside manner. Then it hits you: Captain Levi _cooked_ this for you, and he’s tailored the recipe for your needs. You turn to him, trying not to gape. “By the way, Captain… thank you for doing this. Nobody’s taken care of me like this since…”

You go quiet. Around you, the room shivers. An intrusive memory pries at your mind, but you resist. Levi’s hand is still on your shoulder, now rubbing gently.

“Just focus on eating.”

Nodding, you bring another spoonful to your mouth. You try your very best, but you find that you can only get through half the bowl, wondering if your captain will berate you. You can already hear this voice: _Tch. I can’t believe you’re wasting this shit, brat. I fucking cooked for you._

Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t look upset when he sets the bowl aside, even goes as far to tell you that you did a good job.

“That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard from you,” you observe.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

But you can’t stop yourself from smiling at him, from leaning into his touch. You don’t know why he’s still rubbing circles into your back, but you rather enjoy it, and you desperately hope this isn’t some sort of fever dream. You’re almost disappointed when he shifts the pillows beneath you, delicately lowering you onto the bed. You’ll miss his touch, you think hazily. He won’t give this to you when you’re well again—it’ll be back to grueling drills and kicking gas canisters.

“Maybe I should get sick more often,” you joke.

Your eyes close when his hand touches your forehead, so you don’t catch the way his gaze drops. It’s a pity, you’ll later think, that you are too delirious in this moment to realize how much he must be hurting.

“You better not.”

* * *

**The irony is unbearable.**

**“It _does_ bring back memories.” His lips thin. “ _Shit_ memories.”**

* * *

Sometimes, Levi thinks about an alternate reality in which his mother survived. He’d dwelled on it especially in his younger years: a fantasy where his mother recovers, where he’s able to care for her so that she stops wasting away, stops burning alive with fever. She gets better, and they make it above ground together, and they live in full sunlight, their smiles wide every day.

He doesn’t think about it much these days. It’s like Kenny said: he doesn’t have the luxury of mourning, of grief. These fantasies are too close to _regretting,_ a violation of the promise he made to himself after the last of his family died.

But when he looks at you, your wrist fragile and your cheeks melting away, the old memories return. As he sits at your bedside, the remnants of his childhood come back to him: he helps you sit up, feeds you soup, massages your shoulder. It comes like clockwork to him. The hopes and the fears resurface easily as well, slinking in from derelict corners of his mind: he must stop you from wasting away; he must make sure that you will see sunlight again; he must see you smile again.

Levi pulls the blankets over you, hears your little moan. Suddenly, as he’s studying your sallow lips and pained expression, he realizes something.

“Hey, rookie.”

“Hm?”

“How old are you?”

You pause. There’s surprise in your eyes, and maybe a little more flushing in your cheeks than he might expect from a fever. He tries his best to ignore it.

Your reaction is endearing, but the answer makes his lips thin. After all, his mother had been your age when she died.

The thought is an intrusive one, and he tries to push it out of his mind. He shouldn’t draw this parallel, not when you’re flushing and smiling up at him, leaning into his touch and joking, _maybe I should get sick more._ He shouldn’t project these old fears onto you, because you’re his rookie, because he must care for you responsibly, because he cannot allow his personal feelings to complicate this relationship.

He pulls his hand away from you.

_Look at yourself,_ he keeps thinking. _Erwin didn’t promote you so you could act like this. Get your shit together._

Levi is eventually successful at drawing a boundary between the two of you. But for the first time in a long while, he will not be able to shake the feeling of regret.

* * *

**“Do you have _any idea_ how hard it was to have feelings for my captain?” you moan.**

**His mouth twists wryly.**

**“Probably as shitty it was to have feelings for my subordinate.”**

* * *

It’s after the fever clears that you come to this startling realization:

_You have feelings for Captain Levi._

You can’t deny it anymore at this point, not after he dropped his prickly exterior just to take care of you. It’s impossible for you to forget his touch, the soft undercurrent to his otherwise toneless voice, how handsome he’d looked in that lamplight, through the lens of your fever delirium. Slate grey and beautiful, you keep thinking. You want him to look at you forever.

Yes—you are head-over-heels and absolutely _fucked._

It’s driving you insane. You know that there’s no chance of him returning these feelings, and even less of a chance that there’s space for a relationship in the military, anyway. Still, you cannot stop fixating on the _possibility._ You keep thinking back to his fingers around your wrist, wondering, _what if…_

You need to talk to someone, but you do not know who. Petra, who is typically your confidant, would most likely not approve. She’s always so furious with assumptions that her loyalty and dedication are fueled by _a stupid crush,_ and equally livid on your behalf when people say the same about you. “It’s not right,” she always grumbles. “They don’t take us seriously just because we’re women.”

Well, you certainly don’t take yourself seriously anymore.

You find that you cannot focus with these feelings bubbling in your chest. You pick at your food at dinner, Petra watching you worryingly all the while. You start to fuck up during training, Oluo berating you every time. You’re quiet when the team goes out for drinks, Gunther frowning every time he glances at you. “I’m supposed to be the serious one,” he tells you. “Me and the captain. _You’re_ supposed to be having a good time.”

You know it’s bad, because one day, Eld’s sitting down with you with two mugs of the Survey Corps’ best. It’s rare for him to drop the professionalism with you, but he makes an exception today. You suppose it’s not surprising that he’s intervening. Ever since that mission where he’d saved you, he’s looked out for you a little more carefully than some of the others.

A clinking of glasses.

“Something’s bothering you,” he starts.

You take a _long_ draught before replying.

“…yeah.”

“It happens,” he says, “but we should resolve it before the next mission. Distractions can be deadly on the field.”

“…right.”

He frowns when you hesitate. He guesses, “Don’t tell me it’s something about your performance. You’ve been doing great lately.”

You shake your head.

“Then what?”

Breathing in deeply, you realize that there might not be anyone better to ask. You try your best to keep your voice steady, but in the end, you eke the words out: “…it’s stupid, but it’s a… personal distraction.”

“It happens.” He waves his hand. “What is it, though?”

You have no idea how to broach the topic. Stabbing in the dark, you blurt out, “What are military policies on relationships? Or expressions of interest? Maybe inappropriate conduct?” Oh, _shit._ That was clumsy. You wait for him to mock you, but instead, he stares intently at the table.

And for some reason, he makes a leap that you’d never expected.

“Is someone bothering you?”

_What?_ “Um… not exactly.”

Now he’s leaning in, his expression severe. Eld seems convinced that something is wrong.

“Listen… I trust the captain, but I’ve noticed things.” He glances around, then lowers his voice. “He treats you in a very… particular way. And I’ve seen you spending a lot of time in his room. And once he stayed a long time in yours. Now you’re acting uncomfortable—I can put two and two together.”

You gape, not able to process this accusation.

“He’s your captain, but you don’t have to do what he says, you know? It’s against military policy to fraternize with your commanding officer.”

A wave of disappointment hits you. It’s all moot anyway, you realize. The captain values hierarchy, and he’d never violate strict rules. You’re shocked that Eld would even _think_ this about Captain Levi, given his professionalism, but it clicks for you when he continues speaking. “And it would be weird anyway… I have a sister around your age, you know. And the captain is older than me.” He clears his throat, straightening up. “Well—again, I trust the captain. He’s a great man. But I just thought I’d go out of way to make it clear what professional boundaries are here… _just_ in case.”

It isn’t so bad, you think. You can at least manage your feelings better with this logic. Still, you’re absolutely mortified at Eld’s observations of your interactions with the captain, as well as his ensuing conclusions.

“It’s nothing like that!” you blurt out. “The captain’s just looking out for me! He stayed in my room just to take care of me while I was sick! And, um, I was asking about someone else entirely anyway. Someone else from the 103rd who’s been approaching me.” Not a bad lie, you suppose. Harassment isn’t uncommon in the military.

This seems to satisfy Eld. “Makes sense,” he replies, nodding. “Of course… it was stupid of me to doubt the captain.”

“Maybe it was unwarranted,” you agree. “But I don’t mind, really. You were just looking out for me.”

He slaps your upper back lightly, knocking back the beer.

“You’re our rookie. It’s our job to look out for you.”

The words are similar to Levi’s. _It’s my job to teach you. It’s my job to keep an eye on you._ And it’s true: the responsibility is a real one, shared by the entire team.

But it leaves an unbearable question.

After all, it’s everyone’s job to look out for you, but nobody goes as far as Levi does. And you don’t know why he goes that extra mile. This is likely the reason why you never end up shelving your feelings for him. The possibility exists, always taunting you, always eating away at you, somehow even making its way into your dreams.

Eventually, the tension will cut loose, and the feelings will boil over, burning you. But it will not happen today.

* * *

**“I couldn’t understand your gaze back then.”**

**“I know.” His eyes soften. “But I could understand yours.”**

* * *

Even as a soldier, the memories come back to haunt you: goat milk running into red; two massive fingers; a terrible grin; your screaming mother; the sound of snapping bones. It is a scene that you barely remember in your waking hours. It is a scene that haunts you in your dreams.

There other things that keep you awake: the cruel floor of the warehouse; green eyes overflowing with grief; a gnawing emptiness in your stomach; Garrison soldiers and their dirty handprints on your body. If Titans chase you in your sleep, then humans haunt you in your waking hours.

It is harder to deal with the pain these days. Eren, Mikasa, and Armin are far away in the cadets’ barracks, after all. You find yourself waking up while the moon is still high, lonely without the three of them checking in on you, restless without the task of taking them to bed. A hollowness invading your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself and consider your options.

You walk to Petra’s door, pressing your ears on the wood. It is the middle of the night, and you cannot hear any shifting within her room. She must be fast asleep.

You end up at the entrance to your captain’s room. You know that it is foolish, to go to him in this moment when you have feelings for him. You have little experience with relationships, but you know that it will only make it harder to reign in your emotions later.

Still, you have nowhere else to go.

A small light crawls out beneath the door, but you do not know if he’s awake or if he’s fallen asleep in his chair again. You do not know if you want to bother him with something so unimportant. You end up with your back against the wall, sliding onto the floor, your knees brought up against your chest. You feel like a child.

When his door creaks open, you do not know what to say to him. You only look up at him, watching him tiredly. You hope that he cannot see the redness in your eyes.

For a while, Levi does not say anything. You expect that he’ll soon raise a brow, speak with his usual flat tone. _What the hell are you doing? You look like shit. Get to bed._

But instead, he only turns around, nods toward the room.

“What are you waiting for? Come in.”

It is a surprise, but you accept the invitation. You sit in front of his desk, and busies himself with a brewing tea in the corner. When the hot water hits the cup, your brow furrows at the fragrance. This is not his usual blend.

He ends up sitting down on the other side of the desk, shoving a cup of chamomile toward you.

“This tastes like watered down piss,” he warns you, “but it’s supposed to calm people down.”

Gingerly, your fingers come to rest on the handle.

“Does it work for you?” you whisper.

“Doesn’t do shit. But it won’t hurt for you to try.”

Nodding, you bring your lips to the cup. There’s nothing but silence now. Levi doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you. He simply stares out the window, giving you space.

Your gaze wanders, trying to drag away your thoughts away from the nightmares. You stand, glance at the papers spread over his desk. It’s all battle profiles, score cards of each soldier. Somewhat surprisingly, he’s been sorting through the profiles of the vets. Immediately skimming the captain’s metrics, you find yourself whispering, despite yourself, “…87 kills…”

It isn’t surprising. You still remember how he cut through the monsters whom ended your childhood, powerful and untouchable. The memory of his bloodied hand and hot grip is one of the few things that can dispel your nightmares. You remember his eyes burning into your memory, the only beautiful thing in Hell. For so many years, it has been your crutch.

But when Levi replies, he doesn’t sound the least bit proud.

“Is it that high now? I hadn’t realized.”

You frown at his tone. “It is. You’re incredible, Captain.” You don’t even bother to filter out the confusion in your eyes. “I’ve always known you were strong—it was clear from our first meeting—but this is…”

“Nothing special.” Your captain pauses. “Not to me.”

You move toward him. This man is such a puzzle, and you can’t help but want to solve this maze. “I’m sorry if this is wrong for a subordinate to ask, Captain, but… why isn’t your skill in battle anything special to you?” So many soldiers have died without regrets while cursing the Titans, knowing that Humanity’s Strongest will avenge them. For so many nights, you have remembered how he cut the sky in half, the strength of his bloodied hand around yours. “…it means a lot to the rest of us soldiers.” _To me._

“I know. That _is_ important to me.” His gaze is on the window now, catching darkness. “But the metrics themselves aren’t particularly impressive. Fighting comes naturally for me.”

“How?” And you remember yourself, recall that this personal interest is likely inappropriate for your rank. “…I’d just like to get as strong as you, that’s all,” you clarify.

“I don’t know if you could,” he says. When your lips thin, he clarifies, “I’m not a normal person. That’s why I’m like this.“

Your brows furrow. "Not normal…?” Of course he isn’t normal, you think. He’s Humanity’s Strongest. But his tone implies something else, something _bitter_.

He nods. “Have you ever heard of Kenny the Ripper?”

Unsure about his thought process, you reply, “…yes. He’s come up in our history textbooks from time to time. Killed over a hundred MPs, then disappeared. Why do you ask that?”

“Because I lived with him for a time when I was a kid. He was a piece of shit, but he taught me to defend myself. That’s why I fight the way I do.”

Silence. It sounds like a joke, but it would be a strange one. You cannot muster a reply, and you end up simply waiting.

“…he taught me violence. It allowed me to survive the Underground, but that place was a shithole. I’d hate for you to have to go through that lesson.” His mouth twists. “Then again, it’s my job to teach you things. Maybe someday I’ll have to, but personally, I hope that day will never come.”

A silence permeates the room, cold but stifling. Your chest is split, conflicted: your captain worries for you, wants you to live a normal life; your captain does not believe in your life experience, mistakes you for a sheltered, little girl. You _know_ violence, you think. You’ve felt it gripping your body, and you’ve seen it closing its jaws around your mother. It’s a cruel boot digging into your ribs. It’s starving refugees pulling knives on each other over meagre rations. It’s men gripping your arms. It’s _hey, pretty thing, would you like a meal?_

But it’s also a stranger saving you. It’s your blades cutting dense, steaming flesh. It’s your arms in a chokehold, pressing against the necks of filthy people.

You look down, your whisper sounding like a confession. You would never say this to anyone else, but for some reason, you feel like your captain will understand your words.

“I wish someone had taught _me_ violence.” Your fingers curl at your sides. Staring out the window, you try to focus on whatever Captain Levi is staring at, but all you can catch is the frost on the glass. “…is it wrong of me to want that?”

“I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, but I also don’t give a shit about things like that,“ he drawls. "Whatever it takes for you to survive is good enough.”

You tilt your head, considering. The conversation’s gotten abstract, and you no longer understand what he is saying. Perhaps he isn’t wrong to underestimate your experience, you think. Perhaps you have only felt a fraction of the pain he has.

”…are you saying you’d train me, Captain?“ you guess.

During his pause, his eyes are unreadable to you. In the near future, you will come to recognize his expression, will come to wear it yourself. Presently, however, he remains a puzzle.

His hand rests on your head, patting you gently.

"I’m saying I’ll teach you to survive,” he finally replies. “That’s my job.”

* * *

**“How could you have understood?” You rest your head on his chest, your cheek pressing against bare skin. “How did you know what to do?”**

* * *

When Levi sees you curled up on the floor outside his room, he isn’t surprised. You do not disclose your thoughts to him, but he doesn’t need words to know. He’s curled up like this beside Kenny’s room, too afraid to knock on the door, but not knowing where else to go.

There’s something sharp in his chest, unbearable. He hates this expression on you, he thinks. He remembers being eight, being twelve, being fifteen, being twenty-three, his own ribs aching with the grief reflected in your eyes. It doesn’t matter what’s on your mind. It only matters that you’re hurting like he once did, and that he has promised himself to protect you.

It only matters that he will help you the only way that he has ever been helped, even if it is a cruel thing to do.

In the future, it will become clear that he has little idea how else to help you, little idea how to love without teaching violence. This is simply how he was raised, something that Kenny ingrained into him.

His only other example of love has become a hazy fog, and he knows that it will not be enough to help you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I would love to hear what people thought about this! I was super nervous about writing this chapter (I'm not very good at fluff, let alone _Levi_ with fluff haha) so I'm super interested in hearing your thoughts! :)
> 
> **Quick characterization note:** the anime briefly shows Eld's household, which includes a young woman with long, brown hair. It wasn't explicitly stated, but I assumed that this was his sister!


	4. The First Crossing: Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left encouraging comments/kudos on the last chapter! :) Chapter 4 was a bit of a slog to write, and I would not have been able to get through it without your kind words!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this chapter!

* * *

**You pull your hand away from him, frowning.**

**_"Why are you acting like this?”_ **

* * *

Levi is eight years old when his mother passes.

It takes him a couple of days to admit to himself that she has died. Even as he covers his nose from the stench and stares at her, trying to figure out why she doesn’t look _right,_ doesn’t look _natural,_ he thinks to himself that she must just be asleep. After all, he knows that it looks bad, but she _can’t_ be dead.

He can’t be alone.

He switches out the sheets, tucks her into something clean and hopefully warm. He keeps saying to her, “Mama, please wake up.” He tugs one of her shirts tightly to his body, breathing in her scent. He even slips it on, thinking about how it feels against his cheeks whenever he hugs her. He’ll do that when she wakes up: give her a great, big hug and tell her how much he loves her.

But the days pass, and she remains completely still.

“I’m very hungry, Mama,” he whispers. They’ve run out of food, and his stomach keeps growling. But he knows the toll this sickness has taken upon her. Her face has become more of a skull than anything else, pallid skin pulled taut over bone. She’s been sleeping for so long now. She needs the rest. He can try to steal food for himself later, or maybe one of the other ladies in the building will give him something. 

He hopes so.

In time, he will realize _why_ she looks so strange to him like this. It is his first time seeing a dead body, and he will have a moment where he thinks, _oh,_ he’s never seen someone like this: completely still like a doll, no twitching her face, no rise-and-fall in her chest. Living people are never this still. That’s why this doesn’t look natural.

Kuchel Ackerman dies, and Kenny takes Levi in just as he recognizes the truth. 

The years pass. 

Levi is fifteen when Kenny leaves him.

He’s no longer a little ghost in the corner of his room, weak and breakable. He no longer scrounges for food, begs from the other prostitutes, cowers at the scum who used to come into his home and hurt his mother. He’s small, but Kenny’s trained him well, and Levi’s become unfettered strength and concentrated anger. _He’s_ the one terrorizing now, kicking scum in the stomach, screaming in their faces even as his own blood drips from his chin. Kenny’s proud of him, he thinks. He’s raised him into someone who can _survive._

Kenny must be proud, so it is strange when Levi sees him through the crowd. He is turned away, eventually swallowed by the darkness of the Underground.

At first, Levi thinks nothing of it. Kenny will be at home later, reeking of alcohol and spouting his usual musings on life. Levi will listen attentively, and he will commit them to memory, to life.

It’s stupid, but it takes him several days to realize that Kenny won’t come back.

He takes this second loss in stride, allowing it to dissipate with time. And once more, the years pass.

Levi is twenty-five when Farlan and Isabel die.

It takes him seconds to realize what has happened. There is no denial, no pretending. Terribly, _cruelly,_ he recognizes that some part of him has always expected this inevitability in life, and that he has accepted it long ago. He accepts it even as he cries, as his skin runs red with monster’s blood, as his body fills up with screams. Some part of him has always known they were going to leave.

Loss is a constant that he accepts, that he no longer regrets. He lives with it complacently, and yet again, the years pass.

Levi is thirty when he meets you, when you show him a kindness that has become foreign. He catches himself staring at your smile when he humours you and treks the top of the Walls with you, drenched in sunlight. The two of you point at the stretching fields and forests beyond, and he studies your expressions, perfectly fitting into brilliant, blue skies. 

“I used to hike in the Titan forests a lot when I was a teenager,” you tell him. He’s grown to like it, to hearing about your life before it fell apart. You tend to look happier than usual when you do. It always makes him ask more.

“Is it nice when you don’t have ugly ass Titans chasing after you?”

You giggle. “ _Very_ nice,” you confirm. “It’s like hiking in any other place, but even better because the trees and plants are all so massive. It’s gorgeous.”

“I’ve never been hiking,” he confesses. When your eyes widen, he adds, “No forests in the Underground. And I’m too busy now.“

“Oh…” You take the detail in stride, which he appreciates. He isn’t ashamed of his past life as a gutter rat, but he also doesn’t like to dwell on it. “Well, when we reclaim Wall Maria, I’ll take you!” You pause, seeming to remember yourself. “…with the rest of the squad, I mean.”

His lips twitch rebelliously.

“Right.”

“They’re all from Wall Rose. They wouldn’t have seen the forests either!”

“ _Right.”_

As usual, he passes gracefully over the slip, watching your flustered expression only out of the corner of his eye.

As the year crawls by, he finds himself staring at your hands as well. Levi’s only held them twice, but he keeps thinking back to how they felt in his own: foreign and funny, teasing at some long-forgotten memory. When you show up in his room in the dead of night, looking haunted and breakable, he always wonders if you would like him to hold them. The dying soldiers do. 

His dying mother did.

But he always opts to pat your head instead, the way he always did with Isabel. When you give him your tired smile, something unravels in his chest. 

"Thanks, sir. I’m sorry for always doing this.”

“Don’t be silly,” he says briskly. “It’s not a problem. But you get your ass to bed soon. You look like shit, and at this rate, you’ll _perform_ like shit tomorrow too.”

A knowing smile is on your face. He tries to look away, but he fails.

Suddenly, it’s been a year, and Levi notices that he can’t recall what life was like without you. He keeps waking up in the middle of the night with a blanket draped around his shoulders, and he always thinks, _I’ve gotten too used to this._ He can’t fathom anymore how shitty the years he spent without you were, that cruel space between his loyal rookie and the last of his family. 

He knows that it’s shit of him, to feel this way about someone who is his subordinate, who he must actively endanger as part of his profession. He knows that it’s stupid of himself to treasure this stability. He knows that it will be painful in the end when he inevitably loses you.

But for the first time, he can’t remain complacent.

He shouldn’t feel this—whatever _this_ is, because he sure as hell doesn’t know—but he can’t help it. Levi will not let anything take you away from him—

—not even death.

Levi is thirty-one when he realizes that he cannot lose you.

* * *

**Levi eyes the new recruit carefully, watches his animal gaze behind metal bars. He can’t help but wonder: what is your relationship to this _monster?_ **

* * *

When you look down upon Trost, you finally know what Captain Levi must have seen all those years ago.

The chaos is spread out beneath you clearly: collapsing buildings, scattered limbs, stains the colour of rust. You know what it means to be on the ground in a scene like this, to be screaming prey fleeing from bloody-mouthed hunters. You know what it means to be crawling on the ground through senseless carnage, helpless.

But today is different. Today, you are not a helpless girl in denial. Today, your blades are the teeth that are covered in copper, and your Wings of Freedom are the ones spread against the sky. The world falls apart around you once more, but under the command of Captain Levi, you do not flinch.

Still, old habits must die hard. Though you are now a full-fledged soldier, there is a moment in which Captain Levi seems to forget this. It happens when you come to the broken gates at Trost, now sealed shut with a massive boulder. A massive Titan corpse sags in front of it, already dissipating in scorching steam. You look down and see a small boy with straw-coloured hair, holding another soldier in his arms…

Your eyes widen. For a moment, you are five years in the past, and you are all just children. 

“ _Armin! Eren!”_

You run forward—

Someone grabs your shoulder, shoves your whole body back. You aren’t ready for it, stumbling backward and almost tripping on your feet. You turn to the captain, and for the first time in your life, a fury burns through your chest.

You struggle against his unyielding grip.

“ _Let me go!_ ”

His mouth thins. “Fall back, soldier.”

You grind your own teeth, glance back between him and the kids. “ _Please,_ Captain!” you plead, struggling the whole time. “I _know_ them!” 

The words leave his lips as irately as they did five years ago, like things haven’t changed at all: “Shit— _do you have a death wish?_ ” His hand is iron tight around your wrist. He pulls you toward him, and you feel every inch of his glare on your body. “Take a fucking look at them. That brat just came out of a Titan’s body. Don’t be stupid.”

Your gaze sweeps again over the scene. The evidence is damning, hinting at something that should scare you: the evaporating flesh, the decaying spine, the pungent and unforgettable stench of a Titan corpse. The captain has been so careful in training you over the past year, and you know that you should acquiesce to his orders.

But all _you_ can see are the two boys in front of it all, terrified and alone.

And as always, Captain Levi can perfectly read your expressions. 

“Get back in line. You aren’t seeing them until I say it’s safe. _That’s an order._ ” 

* * *

**“Eren, look at me.”**

**His gaze is uncertain.**

**“Is that _really_ why you think I’ve been protecting you all these years?”**

* * *

Enemy of humanity.

Traitor.

_Monster._

You’ve been worried sick these past few days, listening to all these military personnel talking about Eren this way. You’ve heard the reports, know that he’s been confined to a cell, have been told that he will be kept in chains during his court trial. You do not care. To you, Eren Jaeger is still a small boy from Shiganshina, crying over his dead mother and absent father, talking big about his dreams to join the Survey Corps and take vengeance for humanity.

Captain Levi has berated you for your behaviour in Trost, which qualified as disobedience and toed the line of insubordination. Still, as he watches you stare at your feet and clench your fists, you suppose that some part of him must sympathize with you. When you whisper that Eren’s one of the kids for whom you cooked that Harvest Festival dish, the captain relents. He agrees to let you see the Jaeger brat earlier than the rest of the squad. If all goes well in court, you will be allowed to meet with him immediately afterward. 

Despite this exception, you cannot reign in your panic. _I should have been there immediately,_ you keep thinking. _He was all alone. Mikasa and Armin weren’t with him. **I should have been there.**_

When you throw open the door, Commander Erwin, Squad Leader Hange, and Captain Levi are all there, and their presence should demand professionalism. But the minute you see Eren with his temple in gauze and bruises on his face, you forget yourself. 

_“Eren!_ ”

He jumps to his feet, your name flying from his lips. When his eyes meet yours, all your worst fears are confirmed: he looks relieved, terrified, and tired all at once. You keep obsessing over the facts: _they want to cut him open. They’ve been keeping him in chains. I should have been there._ Your feet move in time with the thoughts, and before you know it, you’re throwing your arms around him.

Eren’s still at first, but you don’t care. “Thank _God,_ ” you start. “I was so worried! You look like _hell_ —what did they _do_ to you?”

You pull back to get a better look at his wounds, but you’re stopped by his arms. Eren’s grip on your body is desperate, almost painfully tight. 

“Whoa!” you exclaim, temporarily distracted. “You got strong, kid!” 

He doesn’t reply, just squeezes your tighter and leans back. You’re lifted up, left with your toes just skimming the ground. 

“ _Oof!_ ” You’re winded. It’s getting hard to breathe, but you don’t care, only laughing. “And you’re bigger too!” 

He doesn’t reply. Your eyes soften. You’ll ask Captain Levi for full details later, figure out what he’s gone through, work out how you can help. In the meantime, you need to get him to calm down. 

“You can put me down now,“ you say. "Mikasa will get jealous at this rate, you know.”

“What?” It’s enough for him to pull back, genuine confusion in his eyes. “Why would Mikasa get jealous? You hug her too.”

You gape. “ _Seriously,_ Eren? Do you still not know…?”

He frowns. “Know what?”

You snort, find yourself smiling. “…nevermind.” 

For a moment, things are back to normal. Eren’s safe, you can take care of him, and you know that you’ll be able to check on Mikasa and Armin soon, as well.

You’re together again.

You can breathe again.

* * *

**“What sort of home would you like to have? After this is all over, I mean.”**

* * *

The new Special Ops barracks is stony and coated with a thick layer of dust, but you are excited to make it home. You’re helping Levi clean out his new bedroom, the windows squeaking beneath your washcloth. A few feet away, Levi is crouched beneath his nightstand, immersed in a cloud of dust. You hope that between the two of you, you’ll be able to put together nice quarters for him. You would like him to be comfortable here, you think. He deserves that, to have a warm home.

“Eren better not do a shit job of cleaning,” he grumbles. “You know him well, right? Is he good at household chores?”

“I think his mother always did it for him,” you admit. “But I think the Training Corps must have made him a bit more disciplined on that front.”

“Shadis can teach a recruit to kill Titans, but he can’t teach them to clean,” Levi mutters darkly. “But it’s fine. I’ll break him in and train him properly.”

You can’t help but laugh. You used to be so terrified of his compulsive cleaning habits, at his wrath for you and all the other soldiers, but it’s become endearing at this point. “I’m sure he’ll get used to it soon enough. I did!” You turn your head to send him a little smile. “I even enjoy it now.”

He lifts a brow. “Do you?”

“Mhm. Ever since the Harvest Festival.” You can’t keep the fondness out of your voice. “Cleaning up with you was so nice that day.”

He snorts.

“That’s the first time someone’s said that about cleaning with me.”

“And it won’t be the last.” Your eyes soften. It’s silly, but you’ve come to treasure this sort of time with him so much. It’s nice to breathe between the missions and the training, to relax with your captain and the rest of the squad. “I always look forward to this, to be honest.”

“You look forward to me being anal about mopping and dusting?”

“I look forward to spending time with you!” you retort, perhaps a little too shamelessly. Once, you would have berated yourself for your impulsive statements, but they seem to roll off Levi these days, and you’ve stopped caring as much.

You add, voice softening, "It would be nice if we could keep doing this. All of us, together.” You know that the captain must have caught the implication: _all of us, surviving._ These moments you share with the squad have been the warmest and most stable thing you’ve had in years.

And it’s probably the warmest thing _he’s_ had in years, too.

As usual, Levi doesn’t comment on your enthusiasm, just gives a slight nod. His voice is almost entirely casual, but you think you can hear a bit of wistfulness, too.

“…me too.”

* * *

**Mikasa’s eyes are brimming with worry.**

**“How did they treat him?”**

* * *

Gunther and Eld watch carefully as you fix up Eren, tending to the wound on his hand. You weave the bandage carefully around his palm, trying not to wince at the bite marks. Eren looks absolutely devastated, clearly disappointed in his failure to transform, and it makes you hold his hand, smile at him.

“It’s okay, Eren,” you tell him encouragingly. “These powers are very new to you. It’ll take time for you to figure them out.”

He clenches his jaw, gaze bordering manic. “But what will we do if I can’t…?”

You and your teammates trade a glance. Immediately, the same thought passes between the three of you, and you can see it in their faces: _humanity will have no hope._ But that’s not what Eren needs to hear, so you only smile at him sweetly, replying, “It’ll be disappointing, but the Corps will find a way. We’ve been a formidable force these past few years.”

Gunther frowns, clearly not interested in babying Eren. “Well… certainly, it would be no small loss to our potential for the Corps… we were counting on you to change the tide.” Eren looks down, and you catch Gunther’s expression faltering. He nods at you, adding, “…but you’re right, rookie. The situation is grim, but we’ve always managed without a Titan on our side.”

Eld leans in, pointing at you. “Actually, since Eren’s just joined our team—I suppose we can’t call you ‘rookie’ anymore, huh? That’s what we’ll be calling him!”

“Have I finally graduated to a proper member of Squad Levi?” It’s a joke, but there’s an undeniable giddiness to your voice. Eld grins.

“This calls for drinks!”

Gunther rolls his eyes. “Everything calls for drinks with you.”

“Why not?” Eld frowns. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate. Graduated trainee, new team member—we gotta break Eren in, y’know. He’s gotta be able to drink if he’s going to be our new teammate.”

You catch Eren’s shoulders relaxing, and it makes you smile. You’re glad that you’re here to bridge the gap between him and the rest of the team; even if he hasn’t said anything, it’s clear the toll that being seen as a monster has taken on him. For a few moments, you feel at ease, watching as Eren speaks with the two vets.

He drops a spoon, bends down and—

_Thunder._ A crack of lightning. The sky is green, the table swallowed by smoke. You hear the rest of the squad crying out, the sound of metal sliding against sheathes, and you already know what your team is doing. Clenching your jaw, you grab your own blades and jump onto the shoulder of Eren’s Titan, standing defensively.

When the smoke clears, you’re surrounded by your snarling comrades, their blades drawn. Only Captain Levi is calm, standing beside Eren.

Eld is the first to bark at him: _“_ Why did you transform without permission _?! Answer me!”_

“ _Answer him Eren!_ Explain yourself!”Oluo yells.

Gunther clenches his jaw. His voice is a bit more balanced, but no less intimidating. “No—that can come later! First, you need to prove that you aren’t hostile to us— _to humanity!”_

The captain keeps commanding them to calm down, but they don’t listen. You growl, hackles raised, possessed by some deeply ingrained instinct to protect him. It’s been drilled into you ever since your time in the refugee camps, when he’d get into fights and then be terrorized by the Garrison soldiers. For a moment, it’s only more of the same. “Calm down!” you say sharply. You gesture to his shocked expression. “He’s clearly not hostile!”

Petra says your name, her voice strangled. “You’re too close to him! You too, Captain!” She eyes your drawn blades, then looks at you pleadingly, voice consumed by panic. “ _Why are you defending him?_ Get away from him—it’s dangerous! Let me protect you!”

For a moment, the two of you stare at each other, and you feel your arms drop a fraction of a centimeter.

What _are_ you doing?

You’ve never imagined _ever_ raising your blades at Petra.

In the end, you cannot answer her, speechless. It’s Hange who diffuses the situation, and you’re left staring at your own, traitor hands. For the first time, you’ve acted out of sync with your comrades. Until now, you’ve followed their lead religiously: breathed to the same rhythm, predicted their every movement, and entrusted them with your life. It’s been like that ever since Eld rescued you on that first mission, since Captain Levi divulged his thoughts on trust, since you privately decided that you’d place yours in him. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the captain watching you. Your eyes meet briefly, and you wonder what he thinks of your actions.

* * *

**Levi’s torn at the sight before him: your face split with grief, guilt spilling over in your eyes.**

**Did he make the right decision?**

* * *

When Levi speaks with Eren, he realizes what he must do with you. It is as he’s said to the rookie: he handpicked his squad members precisely _because_ they would not trust him, precisely because they would make the same decision in that split second of uncertainty so common in missions. And when he took you on, he’d seen in you a potential to do the same.

But for the first time, you aren’t living up to his expectations.

He doesn’t know what this Jaeger brat is doing to you, but he doesn’t like it. Levi’s not stupid—he realizes that you have a strong, protective streak for Eren, see him as some helpless kid who is your responsibility. The kindness isn’t surprising. He’s been on the receiving end of it too. But he had no idea it could cloud your judgment this much, and he _hates_ it.

Were you anyone else, he would simply tell you to get your shit together and get over it. He would take the risk on the upcoming mission and observe your ability to stay a viable member of the team. He supposes that he would trust you, because at this point, you deserve that trust.

But he knows what the overextension of trust is. It’s the precursor to grief, the precursor to loss.

It’s Farlan waving him goodbye on the battlefield. It’s Isabel’s body, scattered on the plains beyond the Walls.

Levi grits his teeth, his decision made.

He will not lose you.

* * *

**He hisses at you, no longer kind, no longer protective. “Don’t be stupid. You can _never_ know the outcome—haven’t you gotten that much through that thick skull of yours?”**

* * *

“You won’t be riding with us for the next mission.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. You simply stare at him, dumbfounded, uncomprehending. And when you realize what’s happened, something snaps.

“ _Why?!_ ” you ask, scandalized. “Are you taking me off the team?”

Captain Levi’s eyes soften. “No. I’m not. It’s just for this expedition.” He leans back to study you, crossing his arms all the while. You know that you should regain composure, that right now, your relationship is superior and subordinate, and that you’re jeopardizing it. “Your relationship with Eren is compromising your decisions. I don’t trust you to sort your shit out before the next mission.”

“Why?!” You clench your jaw. This might be one of your worst nightmares: your captain not trusting you, thinking of you as incompetent on the field. You _know_ that this is a disservice to you. “I can be an asset,” you argue. “I know I acted out of line with the team when Eren transformed, but it won’t happen on this mission—our objective is the same. We’re going to protect him. That’s what I want to do.”

Levi glares at you, clearly irate. He’s been impatient with you before, but you’ve never seen him so _condescending_ toward you, and you can’t help but hate him a little bit for it.

“It’s not about what you want to do. It’s about what you _will do._ ” His mouth thins. “Eren’s not meant to transform unless his life’s at risk, but what if you’re so hell-bent on protecting him that you misread the situation? Tell him to transform anyway? Risk his life?”

Your shoulders slouch. The captain has a point, you realize…

“What if he _does_ transform and goes berserk, and you’re not on your guard because you trust him so much? He swats you, and it’s game over.”

The hackles rise again. You don’t know what’s gotten into the captain. He’s usually consistent in his philosophy, full of clarity, but this line of thinking—it’s hypocritical.

“What if the kid is in danger and you behave rashly, make a shit maneuver and get yourself killed?”

“Sir, _you're_ the one who told me that death is an inevitability that we have to cope with.” You frown. “You know that I won’t be so careless with my decisions on the field. I wouldn’t endanger my teammates like that.” Your mouth thins as another thought occurs to you. “…I know that this is a convenient way to minimize risk, but—”

“ _Convenient?_ ” he snarls, and you jump. You’ve never seen the captain like this, so defensive, so _furious._ “You think this is fucking convenient for me? Do you think I like this, putting you in a different flank where I can’t keep an eye on you? Where I can’t _protect_ you? Do you think I _like_ being apart from you?”

Silence.

Shock glimmers in Levi’s eyes. He’s realized what he’s said, and he seems unable to process it. Neither can you. The both of you know this: he’s crossed a line. You’ve always received special treatment from him, but it’s been easily couched in his responsibility to mentor you. But this isn’t professional.

This isn’t _normal._

Eventually, he regains his composure. He clears his throat, looking away.

“I’m putting you in the right flank,” he says again, final. “Your duty is to focus on this mission, and act in the interests of your new squad. You are not to let Eren or your ties to us interfere with your responsibilities. When we get back, _then_ we can reinstate you in the Special Ops squad.”

He turns away, leaving.

“If you prove yourself, that is. Quit acting like a brat, and then we’ll talk.”

* * *

**“What did you want to tell me?”**

* * *

The morning before the 57th expedition, you apologize to Petra for your behaviour. You’ve already apologized to the squad as a whole, but she deserves deeper words. It was wrong of you to raise your blades at her, someone who’s been in your corner since day one, someone who’s shown nothing but concern over your well-being. What you did was nothing short of a betrayal.

You are surprised by her immediate forgiveness.

“I know Eren means a lot to you,” she says. “I know you had a hard time in the camps, and I know you have a…” She pauses, looking away. “…special relationship with him. Your instinct is to protect him. It’s understandable.”

You look at her blankly.

“Special?” you repeat faintly. Then the implication hits you. “Oh my _god,_ Petra— _no!_ He’s, like, twelve!” You cringe at the thought, mortified that she’d assume this about you. You suppose that it might be natural—she likely isn’t aware of the age gap, the caretaker role that you took in the camps—but you can’t help but scream a little. “I care about him a lot, but my relationship with him isn’t like that!” 

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“Oh, _good._ ” She smiles. “I’m glad.” At your curious look, she clarifies, “It would make the team dynamic difficult. It’s a conflict of interest, and we’d have to take one of you off the squad.”

It makes sense. You nod.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I mean—it’s a conflict of interest already, that’s why the captain’s taking me off the team temporarily. But we’ll manage after this. Eren’s relationship with me isn’t ever going to be romantic, so it’s doable.”

“That’s good to know.” She hums, thoughtful. “…though as a team, we’ll still have to deal with whatever the captain feels for you.”

Another blank stare.

“ _What?_ ”

She looks at you, surprised. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

His voice echoes, unbidden: _Do you think I like this, putting you in a different flank where I can’t keep an eye on you? Where I can’t protect you?_

_Do you think I like being apart from you?_

You swallow, hoping that your expression remains impassive. “No,” you lie. “The captain is careful about mentoring me, but he keeps things professional. It would be an abuse of power if his actions were motivated by anything romantic.”

“Yes, it would be.” She pauses, thoughtful. “…you’re right. I trust the captain. He wouldn’t do anything. I guess the only conflict of interest is…”

Petra’s voice trails off. She looks away, and you _know_ her expressions, and you know that this is guilt. Your eyes widen.

“Petra, are you interested in someone on the team?”

She shifts, swallowing. No denial. Your mind races, working through the possibilities. Oluo? He’s clearly interested in her, but she’s disgusted by him, isn’t she? No, it can’t be him…

The next option is obvious. Even though she always calls him short and ill-tempered, she clearly admires the captain. It would only make sense for her to like him.

“Petra,” you gasp. “Do you have feelings for _Captain Levi_?”

She blanches, appalled. “Oh _god,_ did your mind really go there?”

“So you _do!_ ” you moan. But she only laughs.

“It’s not the captain,” she reassures you. “We aren’t allowed to fraternize with our commanding officers, remember? And anyway, I tend to like kinder people.”

Well, that doesn’t help. There are a lot of people who show more open kindness than the captain, who has a remarkably prickly front. “Then _who?_ ”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

You frown, still burning with an intense curiosity, but knowing that you should respect her boundaries. You don’t know why you’re so fixated on her love life, anyway. It isn’t your business. “All right,” you acquiesce. But then, playfully: “…maybe I can get the answer out of you after the mission?”

She laughs. “Actually… there _is_ something that I want to tell you after we’re back.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“You’ll have to wait,” she says, a secretive smile on her face. And then she reaches out, squeezing your hand. “And this means you’ll also have to come back, okay?” Her expression falters, flickering with worry. “…this’ll be our first mission apart. I’m a little worried…”

“It’s just supply line establishment,” you reassure her. “Out and then back. Easy task. You don’t have to worry, Petra. I promise.”

You squeeze her hand back. She nods, though it’s halting.

“I’ll come back. Promise,” you reiterate.

Her grip on your fingers stays tight, but she nods.

“Right,” she finally agrees. She flashes you a smile, honey eyes warm and glowing. “We’ll see each other soon, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, chapter 4 is done! Sorry it’s on the short side and uneventful - it’s mostly groundwork for part 5. Please let me know what you think; I always take feedback into account! 
> 
> **Characterization note:** There were originally supposed to be a lot more Eren scenes, but I ran out of steam halfway through writing this, and I didn’t want the chapter to meander too much. Unfortunately, I had to cut out this gems like this:
> 
> “I don’t think the captain trusts me. He called me a creepy lizard…"  
> “It’s okay, Eren. I think lizards are cute!”
> 
> Just some extra insight as to why Levi and Petra are both so confused at (and wary of) your relationship with him!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lowkey hate this chapter but decided to post because so many of you have been waiting for it! I hope it doesn't disappoint too much.
> 
> Anyway, I've been really struggling with motivation for this fic... Let me know how you feel about this chapter! I'd really appreciate it and it would help me decide if I want to continue pursuing it.

* * *

**Jean’s voice is firm.**

**“You’re a good leader.”** ****

* * *

Over the course of a month of rigorous training, you meet your new team: Mikkel, Lottie, Jonas, Ulrich, and Jean. Their reception to you is mixed: Lottie, being part of the 103rd, quite readily accepts your competence. Mikkel and Jonas are harder wins, but you aren’t worried. Nobody is as intimidating as Captain Levi. 

Of the bunch of them, it’s Jean Kirschstein who interests you the most. He’s a new recruit about Eren’s age and from the same cohort. Unlike him, Jean is gifted with precise movements and a level, analytical mind. You can tell from his neat undercut, his ironed lapels, and his accent that he’s from the interior, probably Wall Rose. Raised middle class with a full belly and mundane aspirations, just like you once were. 

He’s also a survivor from Trost. 

When you meet him for the first time, you wonder if this is how Captain Levi felt upon first meeting you: surprised that someone so young could have such a haunted look in his eyes, impressed that he could carry himself with the confidence of a soldier despite it. It’s very unlike Eren, you think. That boy’s never been capable of handling his emotions.

“Do you know Eren?” you ask Jean one day. 

“Yeah, I know him.” His brow twitches, and you smile knowingly.

“Let me guess… you think he’s a suicidal bastard, right?”

Jean’s brow lifts. “Uh—yeah!” His mouth gets a little lopsided. Ribbing at Eren, Jean looks happier than he ever has since he’s joined the squad. “Only a month on the Special Operations squad, and he’s already made that reputation for himself? Figures.”

“Actually, I took care of him growing up.”

Jean’s eyebrows shoot up. “No way…” 

“Mhm. I’m from Wall Maria and used to babysit him and Mikasa. Kept it up after the Wall fell, too.”

His jaw goes a little slack. “I can’t imagine Mikasa needing someone to take care of her… no, actually—I can’t imagine anyone successfully taking care of Eren.”

You laugh. “Yes, well, he didn’t make it easy for me.” 

He snorts. “That’s not surprising.”

A silence lingers between the two of you. Jean breaks it, looking away. 

“Do you trust him?”

“What do you mean?” When he hesitates, you add, “I’m sure you know that I trust his intentions for humanity, so what are you actually asking?”

“I trust his intentions too.” Dryly, he adds, “Remember, I spent three years with the guy. I know he’s obsessed with killing Titans.”

“But?”

“…but I don’t know if he can do it. Everything that we’re betting on him to do, I mean.” 

You consider his words. It’s hard: Jean is just about the same age as Mikasa and Armin. You can’t help but feel responsible for him. You can’t lie to him, leave him on his own to discover the reality of being in the Corps. You try to think of what your captain would say, find the right words to guide this rookie along. 

“It doesn’t matter if he can or can’t do it,” you finally reply. “You can ultimately never predict how things will go. The best you can do is make the decision you’ll regret the least, given whatever may happen.”

“So what you’re saying is, if Eren’s my make or break, I should quit and farm vegetables, huh?”

“Farming vegetables isn’t a bad life, city boy,” you joke. Jean picks up on it—Eren’s probably given him tons of shit over the years for being from Wall Rose—but his smile is weak, and fades quickly. Your eyes soften. “You won’t quit, will you?” you realize. “You aren’t joining because of Eren. You have your own reasons.”

His fist tightens. He looks away, and it’s the same expression you’ve seen in all the vets. 

“Yeah. I do.”

* * *

**The badge on your lapel feels so pointlessly heavy, nearly absurd.**

* * *

During the 57th expedition, you learn to carry the weight of human lives.

The right flank is a cruel position. A wave of golden signal flares from the right spotters tells you that something is coming, but none of you are prepared for the horde of Titans rushing for the center of the formation. When Mikkel and Jonas are both killed, your eyes are wide with shock, lungs squeezed by grief. But you will not stop. Levi’s words layer over the beating of hooves, heavy in your ears:

_You can’t let it stop you. You have to keep fighting._

_Don’t regret at all. It’ll only dull your decisions in the future._

Lottie and Ulrich have seen less action than you, have not survived such dismal odds. As the bodies of Mikkel and Jonas crumple into gaping mouths, your remaining team members go silent, stiff, shocked useless on their horses. 

But these odds are why the Special Operations Squad exists. You have survived carnage like this countless times, and your body moves in spite of it. Even without Captain Levi, the orders come like clockwork. This is how he’s taught you, after all.

“Kirchstein!” you roar. “Get out of here! Head toward the center and warn people about the horde!” 

There’s a flash in his eyes as he reads the situation. He does not hesitate when he forces his horse into a sharp turn. You watch him set off at a full gallop, both protected and no longer a liability to the team. 

_I understand why you disobeyed orders._

_In a situation where you had no information, you had to make a judgment call._

You’re better at it now, these calls. 

“Head away from the formation!“ you shout. “We have to lead the horde away from them!” In the distance, you see a small group of trees. The plan clicks immediately for the others: you’ll have no chance if you don’t get to higher ground. Your heart is pounding with the rumble of giant soles beating against the ground, your body rocking against the saddle as you ride hard. But you do not waver. There is no hesitation, just the manic whirring in your mind, the earthquake of hooves rocking your body, the wires pulling you into trees. There’s your body cutting through sky and your blades slicing into spines.

When you rejoin the formation, your arms are sticky with hot blood, and your chest is bursting with adrenaline. But you cannot stop, cannot relax, can only fight. 

You learn that death makes you take responsibility. By the time the three of rejoin the formation, your role is clear to you. It is apparent when you see the smattering of rookies who have joined up with Jean, grim-faced and desperate.

Armin is there. Twelve year old child who’d slept beneath thin sheets and clutched his grandfather’s hat—he’s a soldier now, and he’s terrified, and his forehead is wrapped in gauze. Your heart tightens for a moment, but you you do not stop for him, because your priority is something greater. Lottie, Ulrich, Reiner, Jean, and Armin: they have all lost their Squad Leaders, and you are now the replacement. 

You must bear the full weight of human lives. 

When you lead them all to the Titan forest, your cobbled wreck of a team joins the other troops. It’s safe, you finally think. You’ve delivered them from Hell enveloping their bodies, teeth trapping them shut. Even if only for a moment, you can reward yourself with a breath. 

In and out. Even breathing, even in the tension of being surrounded by smiling monsters at the base of the trees. You can regroup. You can— 

You can hear violent thunder. 

Eren’s roar echoes in your ears. A cavern opens in your stomach. Coldness flushes through your veins.

You feel ice in your lungs, because you know what the scream means: the Special Operations Squad has failed at protecting him.

 _I need to help them_ , the thought floods you. _Petra, Oluo, Eld, Gunter—_

_Captain._

But you have other responsibilities.

_Your duty is to focus on this mission, and act in the interests of your new squad._

_You cannot leave these other soldiers without guidance._

You must trust the comrades you have come to love over the past year, just like Captain Levi taught you.

_Nobody wants their comrades to die. But you’ll have to learn to cope with that loss._

And so, you learn what it means to regret decisions as a leader. 

You learn what sort of burden that Captain Levi must be carrying.

* * *

**Eld’s sister opens the door. Levi’s mouth thins when he sees her, and he sees you cast your eyes to the ground.**

**The cloth in his hands feels so cheap.**

* * *

Levi vaguely remembers what it had been like to lose Isabel and Farlan. He probably sounded like a fucking idiot to Erwin, screaming his head off in the middle of the field, as though destroying his voice would have helped ease the pain. He’d been so weak. He’s glad the memory is hazy these days, pushed forcefully to the edges of his mind. 

Today, Levi remains impassive when he sees the corpses: Gunther hanging limply by his metal cords, like the sick parody of a puppet; Eld’s torso on the forest floor, eyes face still frozen in fear; Oluo’s body crushed into the dirt, staring listlessly into the grass; Petra’s blood splashed across a tree, her animated expressions replaced by an unnatural stillness. 

He does not cry today. He only moves on. Loss is an inevitability he accepts, and it is a constant that the younger soldiers must also acknowledge.

Levi tells Dieter to abandon his friend’s corpse, and doesn’t sweeten it when Erwin’s final call rings clearly in the air. “Just let it go,” his commander tells the boy, his voice as curt as when he’d told Levi to do the same. Don’t regret. 

Of course, Dieter’s still a kid. He lashes out at the both of them, because this is his first time confronting such a heavy loss.

“Do neither of you have any human feelings at all?!”

It’s a bit funny, this question, because Dieter might have a point. Maybe Levi isn’t human anymore, not after everything that’s happened. A normal person would show weakness, but weakness is a luxury he’d never been allowed in the Underground, the same as silk cravats, as expensive porcelain, as gourmet tea. 

And it’s not something he’s allowed as Humanity’s Strongest.

But Levi must admit that something in him hurts when he looks at you, at the way you stare at the pile of corpses. He must admit that the sight tears him in two: your face split with grief, guilt spilling over in your eyes. His hand twitches, and he wonders how your tears would feel against his fingers. 

Briefly, he lingers on an alternate reality where you and Petra are smiling brightly, joking at Oluo; where Oluo is flabbergasted and where Eld is roaring with laughter; where he and Gunther are smiling against the rims of their mugs, watching all of you banter. He imagines a life where he could see you smiling right now, hugging Petra tightly after this hellish mission.

For the first time in years, he wonders:

_Did he make the right decision?_

* * *

**“You’re kinder than you let on, Captain.”**

* * *

This isn’t happening. None of this is real. The world is tilting, tilting, crumbling beneath your feet.

_Eld, Gunther, you were supposed to take me for drinks. We were supposed to celebrate._

_Oluo, you were supposed to train me more. Bring my skills up to scratch, because you can’t stand watching me during practice._

_Petra… You were supposed to—_

“Just let it go.”

You look up at Commander Erwin, watch him and your captain. They are impassive, beckoning Dieter to compose himself, like human lives mean nothing to them. Of course, you know that can’t be the case. You’ve seen it before, their reaction to loss: it’s common in the vets. Of all the endless iterations of grief you’ve seen over your lifetime, it seems that only this form allows people to survive in the Corps.

Not for the first time, you wonder what sort of loss Captain Levi has experienced. Would he understand you in this moment? Would he entertain your feelings, or simply tell you to get ahold of yourself? People like us, his voice echoes in your mind, his reflection pallid in dark glass, can’t afford to linger on grief.

_But why is it so wrong to grieve? Why can’t I regret that I wasn’t there? I was supposed to be there. If you hadn't—_

You take a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut.

No. That’s not fair. A shudder, self-hating _. I will not waste his time._ Your lip trembles, but you look away from the sheet wrapped around Petra, auburn hair tickling its edges—

 _I can’t waste his time,_ you tell yourself again, but the thoughts are unrelenting: 

_We’re going for drinks tomorrow, Eld._

_We’re training together in a few days, Oluo._

_You’ll teach me about strategy, Gunther._

_We’re going to talk tonight, Petra, and you’ll hold my hand when I cry—_

_I will not waste his time._

Grief crawls out of your throat, unbidden. You try to catch it in your mouth, but it worms your way through your lips.

Captain Levi looks up at you, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes, something that’s less military leader and more pained, more grief, more like you. And suddenly, it occurs to you that Levi should be held, the way you want to be held, that he must be hurting too. That you should protect him like you do with everyone else.

But he masks it again, doesn’t let it slip through for long, and his eyes are opaque again. And you’re just a little girl, crying over Mother, knees stinging and bloody. And he’s your squad leader, hissing at you at the forest’s edge, berating you for being a brat.

The captain hardly looks at you, but he nevertheless reaches for your shoulder. His hand is firm, and he does not hesitate when he holds out his handkerchief. 

“We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, rookie.”

_Actually, since Eren’s just joined our team—I suppose we can’t call you ‘rookie’ anymore, huh? That’s what we’ll be calling him!_

_Have I finally graduated to a full member of Squad Levi?_

Anguish on your lips, a thick paint. The captain’s handkerchief is soft against your tears, and it’s the only thing holding you together. 

* * *

**From across the table, the two of them frown. Mikasa pushes the tray toward you: a startling inversion of roles.**

**“You have to eat,” she insists.**

* * *

When you finally make it back to the barracks, there is only one thing on your mind. You dismount immediately, and run through the smattering of soldiers filing back into the training grounds. You’re not a leader anymore. You’re not a soldier anymore. You’re falling apart, and you don’t _want_ to fall apart, and you don’t want to burden Captain Levi.

Just like five years ago, there’s only one thing that could possibly hold you together.

Eren’s been taken away to first aid, so you can’t speak to him. Instead, you look for a dark-haired girl with a red scarf, for a boy with wide eyes and straw hair.

When you finally find them, you throw your arms around them both.

“Thank _goodness_ ,” you breathe. “You’re both okay.”

When you finally let go, you find the two of them staring at you, eyes weighed down. And in the background, you see it in the sagging shoulders of their comrades: Jean, Reiner, and countless other youthful, aged faces. It’s all familiar: you’d worn the same look after your first expedition with the Special Ops—

_Stop._

Armin speaks, smiling tiredly.

“Thank you for leading us on the field.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” You try to return his smile, comforting. “I would have done it for anyone, but I was especially glad to do it for you.”

You turn to Mikasa then, scanning her. She pulls up her scarf: a habit you recognize from her childhood. It’s one of her only tells for weakness.

“I heard from Captain Levi that you rescued Eren.”

She nods, burrowing her face even deeper in the wool.

“I had to,” she mumbles. “I couldn’t…”

I couldn’t let him die.

Like clockwork, a little voice tells you:

_I let them all die._

Your face falls for a moment, and now you’re in that forest with the five of them, and you’re the one to tip the scales. All of you escape the Female Titan, unscathed. You are walking toward the mess hall, and Eld is smacking your shoulder lightly and Petra’s arm is looped with yours… They are talking with you, laughing with you, but something is muffling them and the sun is so blinding that it is washing out Petra’s features, Oluo’s hair. You cannot hear Gunter and Eld’s voices, because the mundane buzz of wildlife is drowning them out, and—

**_I let them all die._ **

A voice calls out, distant and concerned.

You’re back at the barracks. Mikasa’s hand is on your shoulder, and finally, her eyes reflect worry. They shimmer like opals, and you wonder if she’s going to cry. She’s never cried, not since the day you’d met her during her childhood, but today might be the day. You peer into the reflection of your eyes in her pupils, and you can see tears.

* * *

**“You don’t have to do this anymore.”**

**His grip is tight on your shoulders.**

**“…it would be okay if you left the Corps, you know?”**

* * *

There are traces of her left in her room.

You are cleaning out their rooms, and you have left hers for last. In here, the autumn breeze is too cold, nothing like the Harvest Festival wind on that day when you’d traded secrets in her bed. The curtains dance in the background, and you think of the way that Petra’s hair, always loose, always burning bright like fall leaves, tickled her face.

Sitting in her room, gathering her things, the ghost of her scent lingers. It’s like she’s with you, like she’s laughing in your ear.

"I should have been there,” you whisper. You stare at the bed beneath you: neatly made, as always. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.”

There’s no answer. Your lip trembles.

“What did you want to tell me?

Her sheets crinkle between your fingers.

_What did you want to tell me?_

Wet spots dot the fabric.

_What did you want to say?_

At the edges of your mind, hinges creak softly. From the door, a soft voice enters.

“You miss her a lot, don’t you?“

You straighten up at the tone, gasping a little bit as you hurriedly wipe at your face. When you glance at the door frame, at Eren’s expression, you feel acutely selfish. Letting him see this reaction—letting _anyone_ see this reaction—must be so painful for them… The edges of your mind are crinkling, but you cannot show it to Eren. You have never shown these things to him.

You clear your throat, willing your chest to slow. 

“Yeah.” You stare at the empty sheets, searching for words. ”…how are you doing?”

He steps into the room, his feet slow.

“I should be asking you that.”

A little smile curls at your mouth.

“Should you?” You watch him, eyes softening. “You were in the thick of it. I know how hard this must be on you, Eren.”

His head is low when he comes to you. He kneels beside you, eye level. Somehow, he looks both younger and older than ever before. 

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” he whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. “The captain says that I couldn’t have known the outcome, but—” He inhales deeply, looking away. “I was so close to fighting her when they were all alive. We could have fought together. We could have… we could have, _they_ could have—”

You close your eyes, take a steady breath. It’s hard listening to him, hearing him blame himself like this. It’s painful to hear him echo your own thoughts about yourself, about how you _let them all die._ It’s painful, and you don’t want to hurt, and you don’t want _him_ to hurt…

Suddenly, you understand a little bit what Captain Levi must have felt a year ago, when he saw you staring listlessly at Elias’ corpse. And now Eren is staring listlessly at Petra’s bed and at you, and you can only offer him words that feel wrong in your mouth.

“Captain Levi is right,” you whisper. “You couldn’t have known the outcome. It’s… it’s not fair to yourself, to regret your decision. You didn’t have enough information, you made a judgment call…”

“You sound like the captain.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other. You wonder if Eren can hear the lie.

But after a long pause, he nods slowly, and you think maybe he’ll let you comfort him. He’s never liked being mothered, but he’s always made an exception for you. And he’s always been reckless, always so uninhibited and feral with others and with himself, but he’s not right now. A gentle brush is wiping at your cheeks. When did they get so wet again? 

“You should worry more about yourself,” Eren tells you. “You have to take care of yourself too.”

You try to smile.

“But it’s my job to worry about you…”

“It’s my job too,“ he says firmly. “And Mikasa’s and Armin’s. We’re all worried… worried a lot.” He pauses a bit, staring thoughtfully at you. “…and…”

You watch him, not sure what to expect. 

“And?" 

It’s nearly imperceptible, but Eren clears his throat. "And Captain Levi…”

Your brow furrows, not sure where he’s going with this.

“Captain Levi?”

“…I think he’s worried about you. Really worried.”

Your expression only tightens, considering. The captain has always cared for you in his own, quiet way, but he’s been hard-lined and composed these days. There has been no special treatment lately–only uniform stoicism, like he wants to set an example to every soldier. Like you and Eren and Dieter are all the same, young and in need of guidance.

_It’s my job to teach you things._

_Trust can sometimes be the wrong choice._

“I know he thinks about me,” you agree dully. “But I don’t think it’s been anything more than usual. No more than he worries about you.”

Eren shrugs, looks away.

“Maybe.” His fingers twitch. 

“Definitely.” You watch the bed again, listless. “He’s just a mentor,” you say. Distant and proper as he should be now. Distant and proper even if you want to curl up against his door, watching the light peek through and into the hallway. Lying as you know he does now, acting like there is nothing to regret. 

_I never know whether relying on others is the right decision._

You know it is vile of you, but as you stare at Petra’s empty bed, the thought slithers into your mind:

You should not have obeyed his orders.

* * *

**Levi grimaces as he cleans up the glass on the floor. The shards sound like chimes against each other when he sweeps them with his broom.**

* * *

Levi has always been attuned to your sadness. He’s been acutely aware of it from the beginning, and he thinks he knows pretty damn well what you go through. And he wants to help—he’s your mentor, and your… something else. He doesn’t know what, but it doesn’t matter. He just can’t keep his damn mind off you.

Levi has always been attuned to your sadness, so it doesn’t escape him when you fall apart after his team’s death. He notices that you spend a lot of time in Petra’s empty room. He notices that you pick at your food in the mess hall, that your movements are sloppy during the usual drills, that you are wasting away. He notices the waver in your voice when you talk to him, choking on your own professionalism.

He notices that you don’t come to him.

He hates to admit it, but it annoys him at first. Of course, he sounds like a fucking prick when he talks about grief to his subordinates, so he’s not surprised that you’re being so walled off. He’s not surprised, but he finds himself wanting you to be in his room at night, where he can keep an eye on you. 

Where he can help you process the things that used to haunt him.

But he gives you space. He won’t be immature about it. You’re an adult, and you’ll deal with it, and you’ll come to him when you need it. He knows you will need it.

And inevitably, the day comes when he finds you outside his door, knees up to your chest. It’s déjà vu when he invites you in, allowing you to cross this threshold for the first time.

He has expected this for weeks, he thinks. And in a day’s time, he will realize: he has not been expecting his own behaviour.

For all Levi’s been attuned to your emotions, he supposes he’s out of touch with his own.

* * *

**His eyes are closed, his breathing deep.**

**“No one else affords this to me.”**

* * *

Levi’s demeanor is cool when he walks across the room, seats himself at his desk. He keeps his emotions at bay, pushing away the sleepless nights and his own, wasting muscles. He taps his fingers as he waits for you to speak. _Say what you need to_ , he keeps thinking. _I can help you. I need to fucking help you._

“Should I make some tea?” you ask faintly, interrupting his thoughts. “Chamomile for myself, and black for you?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Levi eyes the two glasses on his table: one he’s been using frequently; the other he’s kept spotless. Kept waiting.

“Fuck the tea,” he says. “We’re drinking tonight.”

You stare blankly at the two glasses for a moment, just stopping. But you incline your head eventually, and he’s swift about pouring you a glass, about refilling his own. He watches the liquor go down your throat, and he sees you wince from the burn. You’ve probably never had such high quality scotch—you look like he did the first time Kenny made him down hard liquor, barking with laughter at his coughing.

Levi does not laugh.

“Not the Survey Corps’ best, huh?” Levi leans back, nods at the other bottle on his desk. “There’s water if you want it, too.”

You shake your head, stubborn. “I have to learn to hold my liquor. Can’t be a vet without drinking like a fish. Eld always says—“

You stop. Then: “Eld always said that.”

There’s a sudden throb in Levi’s temple, but he doesn’t flinch. His hand just tightens around his drink.

"…to Eld,” he says, slowly raising his glass. “To all of them.”

Your lips thin, then tremble. Not for the first time, he sees your whole form: vulnerable before him, trying not to break. He’d broken many times over when he was your age, and he’s relieved that you’re in his room, that he can watch over you while that same process happens to you.

He’s proud when you collect yourself, gives you a nod when you respond:

“Yes. To our comrades.”

* * *

**His hand lingers on your cheek.**

**"It goes both ways, what you told me that night.”**

* * *

You’re being selfish.

_I will not waste his time._

You’re being childish.

_I will listen to his words._

You’re being stupid.

_But I don’t understand, Captain._

Yet you can’t hold on anymore, not when Captain Levi maintains his nonchalant facade. This is how he’s supported you in the past, but it doesn’t work tonight, not when all your closest friends are gone, and it’s just you and your captain and three orphans who are quickly outgrowing you. Not when you know that he’s been lying to you, and not when you have parroted that same lie.

You stand up, hands falling onto his desk. The scotch ripples beneath you, scent woody against your nose. He simply looks back at you, gaze impassive. Perfect soldier, perfect mentor, and it all just makes you lonelier.

“I should have been there,” you confess. “I should have gone into that forest when I heard Eren’s roar. Maybe I could have—”

The captain’s jaw clenches.

"You followed orders. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

You wonder if the words feel wrong in his mouth. No—you aren’t that young, rookie soldier anymore. You know better. Leadership, the weight of lives: you have learned these things make people lie. And the truth is suddenly clear: Levi has taught you that grieving isn’t as much a weakness as it is an inconvenience, an ugly sore, something to sweep under the rug.

“But I _did_ know,” you say desperately, trying not to choke. “I did, part of me knew the minute you took me off the team—”

"What are you saying?” he replies sharply. You recoil. You’ve never heard him like this, not with you. Never with you. “Are you thinking I made the wrong call?”

You shift uneasily. “No,” you say honestly, “I didn’t mean—”

"You _do_ mean.” His lip tugs up, like he finds the whole thing funny. “Don’t _bullshit_ with me. You regret not being there, so you regret following my orders, so you regret both our decisions. Haven’t I always told you?” He pauses to burn his lips with more wood alcohol. “Haven’t you listened to a _damn_ thing I’ve told you over this past year?”

“Don’t regret,” you parrot, feeling as wrong as ever. And you can’t ignore it anymore, not when Petra’s scent is now gone from her sweater and you have nothing to hold onto at night anymore. “…but why not?”

Levi doesn’t respond, just watching. There’s something animal about his gaze, like he’s ready to claw at you.

“I regret a lot of things,” you continue, perhaps foolishly, “but regret is a natural part of mourning. Do you think that’s so wrong of me? To mourn?

"Isn’t that only natural?”

“Maybe it’s natural, but it’s _stupid_ ,” he snarls. You flinch. “Regret is a weakness. Regret makes you stupid. Regret makes you waste away.” He glances at your wrist again, piercing even through the cloth of your pajamas. “You’re being fucking silly. You have to move on. There’s no time to grieve—”

You watch his fist bang on the table. His skin looks more pallid than usual, even in the orange light of the lamp. His own wrist seems unusually weak, even if his strike is as just as swift.

And something clicks.

Maybe you’re not the one he’s lashing out at.

Maybe his behaviour is not about setting examples.

”…is that how you live?“ you ask quietly. "Tell yourself not to grieve? Tell yourself to move along, like everything is okay?”

His knuckles pale. It does not stop the truth from pouring out, firm and disobedient. Heretical, but they’re all gone, and you don’t care anymore.

“I think that’s the wrong way to go about it, captain. I’ve seen people go mad trying to repress these feelings. It’s normal to regret the death of your loved ones—”

“ _I’m not a normal man!”_ he yells, and his fist is pounding against the desk again, and there’s glass shattering on the floor. You’re on your feet, body is tense, and you _know_ there is a boot coming to dig into your ribs, there is a hand that’s going to slap your face. whiplash from a tired, starving, human man. And the fear is a betrayal to him, a betrayal to yourself, but now you understand.

Levi hasn’t been cold because he wants to set an example.

Maybe he doesn’t think he’s lying to you.

Maybe he’s forgotten he’s human.

_I’m not a normal man._

Your voice goes soft.

“Yes, you are.” That fucking rain on your cheeks again, you faintly note. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be yelling at me. It’s not healthy, sir, to bottle up these feelings. I know it's—”

“ _What the fuck could you possibly know?”_ he snaps. Then he’s moving around the desk, so he can look at you properly, so you can see his eyes that are more black than grey now. Beside you, his fist is splitting wood and somewhere, a glass shatters. Your ribs ache and your knees sting, and you shake but you don’t look away. He needs you to look at him. To hear him.

“You don’t know, because you’re young and you’re _stupid_. I was stupid too. But I won’t let you be, I have to teach you—”

From this vantage point, you see Levi Ackerman for the first time.

* * *

**“Were you upset with me? When I did that? I know it wasn’t my place.”**

* * *

Levi doesn’t mean to break the glass. It happens on its own, when he pounds the table so hard that it shakes. Suddenly, it’s falling to the floor and splitting apart, the shards clattering beautifully like chimes. He sees you wincing at the sound, instinctively recoiling, but it doesn’t stop him. It’s natural for him to approach you anyway, to let the violence enhance the intimidation. It’s how he was raised: an ugliness that was carved into him, perhaps forever.

Later, he will look back upon this moment and regret it. He’s never intended to be this sort of leader, has always wanted to live up to the faith his deceased team had kept in him so strongly. This violence is an insult to their memory, and to Isabel’s and Farlan’s. But at the end of the day, Levi’s never known what to do with pain, can’t remember anymore what his mother used to tell him. He only remembers what Kenny taught him to do: to sit in it, to bury it, to hurt people with it. Man the fuck up, his voice echoes. Erwin’s voice is present too: If you regret, it will only dull your future decisions.

There is no room for mourning his mother. There is no room for mourning Isabel or Farlan. There is no room to mourn his team.

So here he is, hurting you. 

"Do you know what happens when you look back?” he snarls. “ _Do you think we can live in a world where we can be weak?_ You won’t survive if you do that. You won’t—” 

You won’t live, and I can’t lose you.

He’s so close to you that he can see the eyelashes hooding your gaze, the way they cover the glimmer in your pupils. He’s never noticed your lips before, but now he can’t stop looking at them, watching their subtle tremble. They look soft, breakable.

You must have looked like this the day you’d first met him, watching the world end around you, terrorized and vulnerable. He wants to laugh at the irony: what a joke that you are loyal to him because of that chance meeting. What a stupid thing to do, to let him lead you into Hell because of a fleeting moment he barely remembers. What a tragedy that you will likely die under his command, like all the others.

Levi glances down at the mess he’s made: the spilled scotch, the sharp glass. A better man should have saved you, he thinks. A safer man. A _normal_ man.

There’s a shudder from you. There it is again—that fragility you can’t afford. You still aren’t listening. You aren’t _learning_.

“Don’t cry,” he bites out. “ _Don’t cry._ That’s an order." 

He wishes he could do something else, but this is the only way. Your loyalty, your imprint, your desire to be a good pupil and good soldier: this is the only thing he has to fall back on. The only thing his next-of-kin had ever fallen back on.

He expects more tears anyway, of course. But when you look up, he finds none. There is no more argument. He’s broken you in, like Kenny broke _him_ —

"I’m sorry, sir.”

His brow furrows. Levi’s in no mood for riddles.

“Sorry?” A scoff. “What could you possibly have to be sorry about?" 

"For my insubordination.”

And suddenly, your arms are around his waist and your body is pressed tightly against his, and Levi can’t remember the last time someone’s held him like this: like he’s human, like he’s hurting, like he’s loved.

* * *

**“Not at all.” He pauses, staring off distantly. “It was… it wasn’t bad.”**

* * *

For all these years, Captain Levi has been all these things to you: mentor, hero, indomitable and perfect. He will always be things to you, but now you know this: he cannot be only these things.

And just as Levi is imperfect, you are not solely pupil, worshiper, a soldier trying to be perfect for him. Fraternization and insubordination—all these rules fall apart when you discard these rules. You do not think about it when you wrap your arms around him, when you feel his jagged breath against your shoulder.

“What are you—”

“I do,” you answer. 

A pause.

“I _do_ think we can be weak in this world.”

Before he can pull away, you whisper into his ear:

“I know I’m younger and less experienced than you, and maybe more foolish… but isn’t it painful not to have regrets?” You hold him tighter and you think maybe he’s shuddering against you. “It’s okay to be hurt. Even Humanity’s Strongest deserves to feel pain and to be held.”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t reciprocate, doesn’t relax. But he doesn’t push you away either, and it’s enough for you to continue.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. But if you ever need to be weak, you can be weak in front of me.”

For a very long time, he is paralyzed in your arms. But you think that, through the drunken haze and the pressure and the grief, your words get to him. His face presses into your neck, and your collarbone becomes lined with wetness, with heat. Eventually, his breathing evens out.

Levi pulls away, but his eyes have lost their edge. The bags underneath them seem to weigh his whole body down, and he walks toward his bed. He won’t look at you. He won’t face you.

“Don’t do that ever again,” he tells you, eyes on his empty bed. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

You stay quiet, just watching. His voice grows listless, bark without bite.

“You should leave.”

You should, but you don’t. You can’t. You must first make sure that he will sleep soundly tonight. For the first time since you’ve met him, your captain has allowed himself the luxury of his bed. You must make sure that he will rest well.

His head falls onto the pillow. His brow twitches, and his voice is cold.

“That’s not leaving.“

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep. Just until then.”

“I don’t need you to,” he replies, but his voice has no snap. His eyes are closing and the tension drains from his face and suddenly, his breathing is slow. It is finally smooth. You lose track of the time as you watch his cheeks dry.

When you are certain he is resting, you move to get up. There is a list of things you should do: getting his sheets out from beneath him and then pulling them over his form; cleaning up the broken glass on the floor; sneaking out to your own room without being seen. But as you rise from your seat, something tugs the edge of your sleeve.

Levi’s voice is distant. He is dreaming.

“Don’t leave…”

He is dreaming, but it still pricks at your heart. The pain on his face is a familiar one. 

Carefully, your fingers brush away the hair in his face, running through dark strands and sweat. You lean down. Your lips hesitate every time his breathing skips, but eventually, they press against his forehead, chaste and sweet. His skin is hot to the touch, and there’s the faint linger of scotch on his breath.

You don’t know who he’s dreaming about, but you whisper against his ear, hoping that it will soothe his dreams:

“I won’t. I’ll never leave you.”

* * *

**“…then why did you get so distant?”**

* * *

Levi has a dream that he’s six years old and back in his childhood home. The mattress is stiff and the bedsprings dig into his back, but he feels comfortable and safe, wrapped up in these thick, woolen blankets that smell like home. His mother is at his side as he sleeps, stroking his hair, humming her lullaby. Her voice echoes in his dreams, ringing like chimes, like breaking glass.

When his breathing begins to even out, she gets up to leave—

And fear grips his heart. Something will happen to her, something will steal her away, and this will be the last time he sees her. There will be no more sunlight. There will be no more laughter. No more embraces, no more songs. He needs to stop her, needs to save her and keep her by his side. Levi grabs her wrist and asks her not to go, his brows knitting together.

And because it is his mother, because she loves him unconditionally, she sits down and holds his hand. Her voice is gentle, and his heart hurts. 

“I won’t. I’ll never leave you.”

She kisses him on the forehead, her lips gentle and warm on his skin. She stays by his side, stroking his hair until he falls asleep, falls apart…

….eventually, the fog lifts, and he is no longer a child.

When he wakes up, he sees you sitting beside the bed. Your neck is at a strange angle, your expression twisted. 

Quietly, he lifts you off your seat. When he lies your body across the bed, you do not even flinch. From this, he knows that you must be exhausted by yesterday. It’s all because of him, all because he entirely forgot himself. Fucking disgraceful. He should keep you warm so that you can sleep comfortably—it’s the least he can do. You are on top of the covers, so he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your sleeping form.

In your sleep, you smile. You bury your nose into his collar, and something pricks at his chest. He tries to push it away.

Still, before he leaves, he pauses to study you.

Levi hasn’t dreamt of his mother in a very long time. It brings up old memories, old thoughts. While he watches you sleep, he thinks idly that you are beautiful. You are beautiful in sunlight; you are beautiful when you are smiling; you are beautiful when you laugh. He hears younger soldiers calling you pretty sometimes, whenever those leering brats are playing their petty rating games, but they don’t know the half of it. They don’t know you like he does.

And they haven’t hurt you like he has. The memories inch back from last night, and he can’t stop berating himself. Fucking pitiful, yelling at your subordinate like that. Letting your feelings get ahold of you— _you’re a shit fucking captain. Weak as hell._

But your voice echoes in his mind, warm and siren-like:

_If you need to be weak, you can be weak in front of me._

His gaze sweeps over the softness of your face. He thinks again: they don’t know how beautiful you are.

When Levi exits his room, he tries to push the intrusive thought out of his mind. It doesn’t matter that you’re beautiful. It doesn’t matter that he can be weak in front of you. It doesn’t matter what he feels for you. There are too many uncertainties in life. Tomorrow, he may not have a bed to sleep in. Tomorrow, he might go hungry, scrounging to survive. Maybe someday, he will wake up with everyone around him gone—

—everyone including you.

Levi thinks you’re beautiful, but beautiful things don’t last.


End file.
